When I write I am making signals. Traces in the snow of the rolling window. In these traces are keys. The keys are hidden in the metaphoric relativity of the structure of the traces. Some traces amplify or decode others. When I am gone, these traces will not matter much. The snow will melt, eventually. But there is a sense in which we are each a kind of prisoner on a desert island. We want to bequeath our treasures and mysteries to those capable of understanding or extending them. So we make signals, in which we encode the maps that show… where the secrets are cached. Traces in the snow of the rolling window.