Into a #90 nine-by-twelve manila envelope (I have to drive to the nearest office supply retailer and buy a store-brand pack of ten, the least expensive bundle available), I slip a previously shock-white sheet of printer paper, its front (or back, who can tell) now splattered with the few details I know for certain, and some I don't (the sum total of which to no one's surprise only covers about two-thirds of the page).

I remain with the envelope for most of the day. Writing down Rémi's name in conjunction with the search is perturbing; the repulsive idea of concretely drawing someone else into his affairs, of setting something grave into motion rather than merely toying with the potentiality of the act, is only shaken from me, by me, after I remind myself that attaining the information Raleigh Durham can (possibly) (hopefully?) procure is still only a fraction of the journey; that even if I find who I seek, there are still crucial junctures to be considered; that there are always waypoints carved into the road ahead at which I can choose to terminate my investigation. That I can stop any time I want.

And even I don't believe what I am saying to myself as the playback of these reminders rattles inside my head when I drop the #90 manila envelope into the mailbox at the corner of Wisconsin and Western, the streetlamp overhead flickering on and off at intermittent intervals until it finally decides to remain lit, spraying my path with detail until I walk out of its illuminating range.
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