 I want to be the one person to read one of my dad's works. Geography of the near past, the trick without anyone's catching onto it is to swim against world current, knowing it to be as much a dream as it is drama on the highest stage, but without losing touched with spirit or with light. Real or even is to move as if nothing has ever happened, which is likewise as true as foam or fog. Each universe is only an ever-shifting sea in the surfacing eyes of former fish. And I think that's one of the first poems I discovered by him, and it just, it's moved me endlessly. Yeah. And what I've always admired about my dad and have been fascinated with is his ability to radiate such a warm and cool and bountiful lightness of being while simultaneously able to sit at his keyboard and plunge into the myriad depths, excavating boundless rapture and joy and wonder and awe, but also the turbulent indigos of the soul and the textures and landscapes of the deep blues. Like Langston's poem, he's known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood and human form. And yet, and yet dad somehow navigates through the world with such an easy and generous luminosity, which is, I mean, I've always been just really in a state of wonder over that. I know we have to continue, but many years ago, dad introduced himself as a poet to the great West Indian poet, Derek Walcott, at a book signing. And Walcott inscribed his book to Al Young, poet. My condolences. But I say, what a beautiful curse it's been. And thank you all so much for joining us here to celebrate my father. I mean, I'm very moved. And thank you, dad, for all the blues and the abstract truths and wisdoms you've bestowed on me since birth, especially for all the love. Thank you. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. Thank you.