When I was an undergrad, I fancied myself a writer. I used to congratulate myself late at night, after all the substance abuse and window breaking and frat boy taunting, by stumbling out onto my roof in the predawn Texas heat with my Herter Norton translation of Rilke's letters to Franz Kappus. "*Must* I write?", I would read silently to myself. "Yes, I must, yes!". -- Matt Kozusko mkozusko@parallel.park.uga.edu