God. Would you type through my fingers? Please, sir? I have thought about it and I really do not know how to say the things that are rambling around in my brain like loose marbles on the floor of a lurching subway car. There are so many marbles ... each representing a topic ... a thought process ... a list of things to figure out ... a person who needs help ... a question ... an ache. You know the list well.

I have a friend who is very ill. Life-threatening ill. She is mad at you and so she will not talk to me. To her I represent you. Therefore we both get her silence. She believes ... she sincerely believes ... that you have turned on her. Failed her. Maybe even cursed her. And so she is angry right back at you. My heart cries for her, wanting to tell her that it isn't true, this rush to judgement she has made. Still, if I were in her shoes ... or her hospital bed ... I would most likely feel the same way.

How can I help her?

And then there are these ... situations. You know very well the ones that I mean. They come rushing at me like the wind off of Lake Erie did a few minutes ago when I dared to open my window that held it back. That wind was cold. A reminder of the winter that is most assuredly on the way. I breathed it in for a moment and then closed the window again, knowing that no pane of glass can prevent the storms that will come howling in from Canada very soon. Same thing. These situations must be recognized. Must be addressed. They are puzzles to be solved. Combinations to be dialed. Some are people that hurt and look to me for answers. Some are problems that require action when I know fully well that no action taken by one man will be sufficient. Why do you put your children into situations where they must fix the unfixable, solve the unsolvable, answer the unanswerable? That really is not fair, you know.

How can I fix things?

So I need you to type through my fingers. I have typed the questions. Won't you type the answers?

Just this once?