A Mass for those up too late

I am corresponding with a surprising new friend who is as much in love with words as am I. She is significantly more skilled in their deployment. It is like playing tennis with someone much better than me. Years since I played tennis, but I still remember that feeling: wanting more of the elated learning that comes from passing shot after passing shot, but worrying I'm boring my superior opponent. This correspondence, and another, with an equally, though differently, word-fetishist friend, has gotten me thinking about the words that move me most. I have had in mind, for some time, to record a reading of the most toweringly beautiful work of prose I have ever read: William Gibson's Mass For The Dead. It is out of print, again, now, after having briefly been revived. When I found that its Lazarus publisher had given up, I quickly got on Amazon and bought all the reasonably priced used copies I could find. I can think of no higher gift representing my esteem for someone's mind and sensitivity than to give them this book. My own copy is bound in deep burgundy cloth, with gold embossed titling on the cover and spine. It is handsome, exuding the air of a cherished relic. It is also insulted by all the little tissue place markers that sprout from its top like un-mowed grass. Perhaps the copyright holders won't mind my recording and posting a work that is threatened with being forgotten. The only thing preventing me is the size of the task. It is just daunting enough to be worth the doing. * * * * * I miss Flame-Haired Angel desperately when she is away. I stay up too late and drink too much. I read silly things and write them, too. Still, I like being reminded of the sound made by the threads of love when they are stretched taught by distance, and plucked with mutual longing.