A Valentine, of the old fashioned, grade-school kind. "Hi! It's no blarney, I'm lucky to be your Valentine." Little kid with four-leaved clover. From boyfriend? Nope. From brother. Brother Randy, to be precise, seeing as there are four of them. Wonder if there's a letter further down the pile. Can't remember communicating with him much, but do remember writing a letter - I think it was to him - about the time I was giving up on Ayn Rand and a life based on logic and reason. I still believed in it, I told him, but was finding I had insufficient capacity for either. Emotion kept rearing its ugly head. I couldn't keep up. Took me a long time to forgive myself. Sometimes I wonder if I ever did - if I don't still have that pinnacle of perceived perfection looming over my head. Wow! That's right up there with pusillanimous pussyfooting, of Spiro Agnew fame. No wonder I gave it all up as a bad job!