No denouement pervades the night in all its whorls and secret gestures. Far away the wind is moving trees in seething patterns; but here at hand are things arranged as though dead. I have a flower made of lightning in my palm, and rectangles shy from its emissions. Here, as though alive, the flower seizes time, and writes herself.

Far away in the water are fish who all swim in a unified direction. The familiar identities have become obscured by darkness. What happens in water in the darkness is happening here. Dead animals and worlds are observing us with a sense of awe. My flower is a hand made of lightning, and what issues therefrom proclaims her hidden author.