Six of us at two tables. Impossible questions, unspeakable acts. The presentation of a completely opaque personality, exteriorizing constantly and on into the twittering night, but in such a way that nothing at all is revealed. Impossible questions, unspeakable acts. Trump Tower scrapes the clouds, all surface, all presentation, but oddly lonely. We huddle in the fifth floor garden letting intimate memories rise in us, into our fingers and onto our journal pages. Strange that with our tender painful memories in the shadow of this man's tower, we have the sensation that we are silencing him.