The Great Man writes a note. He doesn't use a quill. He doesn't use the beak of a hummingbird. It could be an email; we don't know. The words of the note crackle through electronic cells. He wants us to have these words before week's end. Before he sails on Minnetonka--if he sails. Before he golfs--if he does that. Before he closes his computer down. The words do not use his voice. The words come through the voice of  the Lesser One, who knows nothing, who cannot interpret, cannot answer questions, cannot speak any other word but what is written on the note. The Lesser One reads the words over and over. One by one they fall and splash upon the stones. Each drop refracts the light differently.


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