The Wailing Wail
I once visited the Western Wall in the holy city where notes are stuffed into the cracks, the in-box of God. Imagine, the standing ruins of Roman Jerusalem, and a procession of unique wordsmiths each hand-delivering the edited essence of their ultimate skinny.
In that crumbling courtyard, under protective eye of Uzi-packing soldiers and who-knows-what-else, I remember scribbling my note, eyeing my spot. Can’t remember what I put on paper. Nor do I recall whether my missive was responded to or not, time just washed it away.




