Take, for instance, that moment of painfully selfish honesty--when it was impossible to know if this newly-flourishing friendship would manifest as phoenix or burn as sacrificial offering to the pop-Gods, Harry and Sally--when the context required a phone call of inexorable futility and no-other-answer than the one you gave but did not owe me; take it as an example of why living, properly understood, is the most difficult action anyone can attempt and why those who abdicate their responsibility also relinquish the rewards of accomplishment, but also take it--and every moment since--as the consummate sign of what is possible with thought, what is available when integrity trumps whim, when the impossible receives just treatment as a non-value instead of a dis-value, and the emotions that flow from that recognition usurp the emotionalism of desiring not-even-the-unearned but the unearnable; take it as an example of remarkle happiness, of illuminous virtue, of that which should always be named--as what I cherish most about our friendship and what, when asked, I couldn't immediately concretize: our particular, peculiar, perfect benevolence.

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