Terra Brigando Recently, you have been everywhere. I carry your journals as weathered talismans, a sign of misguidance – the way you stole my voice when I was five and I learned that mountains shed such long shadows in rooms that don’t face the sun. I thought I saw you, the other day, walking down West St. It was you, gaunt face, faded baseball cap, hooked nose. Only you disappeared up some unknown gravel driveway and walked into some...