Like a twig on the shoulders of a mighty river, I submit to Wuck’s torrential ambition. There’s something reassuring, after all, in lending one’s tools to a capable and caring craftsman. So often has my life hinged upon painstaking decisions—what to read, write about, teach, sacrifice; where to study, work, live—that it’s nice to be told what to do. I remember fondly, Wuck—for instance and in particular—our one-act competition pieces from junior and senior year, not only how impressive the finished products were for actors our age, but just how little I had to worry about beyond my own performance. At the time, I think, I took it all for granted, but you must have exhausted hours cutting those pieces down to size: merging scenes or rearranging lines or whatever. So this all feels a bit like that, <quote-01>sheltered and nostalgic<quote-01>. Still, sitting sleepily before my office computer, fifteen minutes until my six o’clock critical thinking class, just weeks from my thirty-eighth (?!?) birthday, I’ll admit that I’m not as convinced of this endeavor as I was at seventeen of Art or Long Day’s Journey into Night. But if you, Hoke—just as busy and just as middle-aged—are as excited about it as you are, Wuck, then the passage will likely be worth my time, whatever the destination. For me, I suppose, any other apologia is secondary. And while I don’t think this process will simulate the high of arranging <quote-02>Oingo Boingo’s “We Close Our Eyes”<quote-02> on our way through the Nevada desert—you, Wuck, very seriously guiding you, Hoke, through your paces on glockenspiel—I am hopeful.