There is a loose thread on the tip of my finger and rather than clipping it I pull it and yank it out and let it unravel. And I follow it like the golden thread to the walls of Jerusalem where I press my ear to the stone and listen for the sound of a cat's footfalls and see the image of a woman with a beard. I can hear the sadness in the pink letter addressed to Alan Alda in the seventies and I can feel his heart wrenching and I can't stop crying.