Like returning to an old childhood neighbourhood, there are vestiges of familiarity that convict me of my neglect. Failure to catch up with old friends, discarding part of my background not out of choice or shame, but rather caused by the distractions of busyness and the pathetic quenching of a writer's desire. Can I ignore this inner voice any longer? I fear my silence would testify to laziness and apathy.

I hope to visit soon for a longer stay. Suffice to say you are missed and I hope to have something meaningful to offer when next I call.