I found copy of The Postman.  I almost smiled.  I kept it and put it in a plastic bag in my backpack.  I am reading it. A post apocalyptic fairytale of one aimless man in the aftermath who finds a postal uniform and some letters and… Just the sort of thing to keep me going, a little fictional hope, to stave off the realities, of maniac females at the Coaches that beat descent folks, hunting and skinning animals to survive, weathering rainstorms in my tent and stone-cold weariness of living. I gave away something to someone today. I gave a joint I found on the street to a woman. I did not think I had it in me any longer to be kind, but she was high already, and her laugh made me smile. Maybe I wanted to give her another, give her a little hope, like the character Krantz in the book does with the letters.  The joint wasn’t going to make reality better, but maybe even a little relief was hope, so I gave it to her, and she kissed my cheek.  Funny the little things that keep you going.  If only somewhere out there, there were heroes, like Krantz.  Hope is a fragile thing with wings, hard to hold.