blame it on louis l'amour

So I finished re-reading Conagher last night (or should I say early this morning), and I hold the ending of that book directly responsible for the existence of this blog...

The widow Evie has spent the entire book tying small letters to the tumbleweeds and letting them loose. When finally confronted about it, she responds, "I was lonely. I had to talk... to write to somebody, and there was no one."

The answer she received to that confession is the exact same answer I long for someday...