I bathe in the glow of a computer screen, I scratch around for meaning in black lines of text and words that will never suffice the sentiment. I cradle around it, make a fire, and let it burn away the stagnance. I try to find the words that define the way I love you, the depth by which I touch a little part of you, and always come up feeling just a little disappointed at my inability to articulate the inexpressable. You are more real to me, more poignant, more entirely a part of me then You or I or they or them or that which comes before or after will ever be able to estimate. You are the summary of my complete station, my clear channel, in not this life, but mine. There has never before been any soul, any thought, any resonent being that has ever received the pieces of me that I share with you and you alone. My sister isn't in the blood or in the upbringing. She isn't in the social faux pas of family. She is in my spirit, and without her . . . I may not have found my soul.