Low point

Wanna come over tonight?, I message her, perhaps more shrewdly than anything else. I don't want to be falling asleep alone. I've had enough last weekend and insomnia is back with a vengeance. It used to be an integral part of my life for years and I'm worried now.

She longs to be caressed and she longs to confess. And cry: she breaks into tears as soon as she starts talking. It's the low point, her therapist apparently explained. It would get better and than worse again and better once more. Seemingly neverending sinusoid of highs and lows.

I'd love to help but I cannot: it's her own mind at stake, I cannot interfere. She has to find on her own what's good and what's not, what she wants and what she doesn't. Any advice would be useless if not hurtful.

I'm fondling her gorgeous breasts when falling into abyss of dreams and it seems perfectly natural — yet that's was not on my agenda; not even as a bonus. It's just happened to be a part of a connection of two wounded mates desperate for comfort, two lonely earthlings in the need of a helping hand in order to get through the night.

I'm sure you'll figure out the angles, Bob said.

Frank

Saturday mornings in Centennial Park. A bit too early and sometimes also chilly for my liking, with nature just about waking up; pretty much the same as me. We walk three rounds in a fast pace before we split, only to meet the following weekend again at the same place.

We — that's Frank, Joe and me. Like father, son and grandson, three generations set 25 years apart.

We talk all the way; U.S. mortgage crisis and the stock market volatility is the number one topic back in 2007. Sure, we may talk about arts, too. Photography, music, theatre. And sport. And history as well. Nevertheless, the state of the economy is always the prevailing theme of our seemingly perpetual agitated discussions.

Now, we've lost Frank. As fate would have it, I learned from Wikipedia, from the article I myself started.