Dear Reader,

Tendrils of gold flare out from behind the Blue Ridge Mountains. The sun has just set. The cumulus clouds will shortly turn to molten copper, scarlet, then deep pink, finally lavender—perfect timing for I have now finished Cakewalk.

It took a trip to Runnymede, my heart’s home, to Celeste Chalfonte to show me the price one pays for institutionalized oppression, the subtle price; the political price is obvious. Once the bill is no longer due you can see easily.

Sex is interesting. Sexuality is not. Or as Celeste says to Fannie, “Only a fool refuses love.”

May you always be open to love. I add to this the love that comes to your door on four feet.

As to sex, I leave that to you. Should you find it perhaps love will attend it.

The sky is blood red now. Even if one is burdened with sorrow, heavy responsibilities, it is impossible not to be uplifted by such majesty.

Maybe love is an interior sunset?

Onward,

Rita Mae Brown