We sat on the cliff-head before twin suns. For all I know we were singing "Dancing on the Ceiling." Descending I became lost but this is nothing new. From the screen poured images toward me. The images effected a hole in the approximate center of my body. I experienced no discomfort to my somewhat surprise. This was many weeks ago many times of days ago. Yet as far as history goes it was no time at all. Many kinds of days ago I should have said above. The body has altered many times since. Has bent a little over on its stem and shed a layer of film. Winter has come and gone should be remembered. White occasions like clouds she may once have whispered. To that I would add, fields unplanted, some still burning. Wonderless things days at a time. As a storm begins as a night storm to end as an ice storm. Some by now certainly have left to seek shelter in the mountains. Only to be met there by the force of spring rains. Paths turned to mud boulders torn loose from above. The difficulties with burying the dead she may then have said. But this letter is something like a door even if a false door. Unvoiced as breath voiced as ash. To that I would add there is a song opposite itself. To that I would add, we have drawn necessary figures from the sack of runes or tunes. Echo and wormwood conspire at the base of the throat. Snail climbing acanthus measures our pace. On the plate by the mark of difference a mark is made we call the first mark. Weathering so the wheel of days. Gaia the bag lady in sadness below.