In the moon were many opossums and other figments of rapture. My hand was thousands of years long. You could see the path in the sky that the author had taken, the places swept clean of stars. My loyalty remained impeccable, like the patterns of wind in the grass. Yet there were signs of fires, distant and close, in whose whispers secrets traveled. The sense of her was everywhere, but anything else was missing. White cliffs and cruel silences.