There are secrets here. As those intrinsic to the most ecstatic kiss. The day is grey; fog has hidden the structures of both the city and the mountain forest that overlooks it. The bizarre yet perfectly appropriate anachronism of the 1920’s clothesline that yet survives beyond the back door — and the droplets of last night’s rain adorning the inchoate spiderweb that encompasses the ancient pulley that hangs the line. I am not here. I disappeared years ago. My obituary was inscribed by the footprints of small insects in soil and read by the dreaming leaves of trees at sunset. In Hell there are kisses whose secrets would obliterate heaven. As those intrinsic to the spider’s arrangement of stars in a sky that lives within us all yet is never precisely »seen. We see due to its occult influences upon a void within us. We see because the fog occludes the structure so perfectly that a dream emerges from this marriage. The steeple wrecked by lightningstrike. The morning call of an unknown bird fading into the incessant alarm emanating from some damnable machine. And, later, inverting. I am the bird who disappeared into noise. And emerged therefrom, perfected.