Fire tore these letters from my mountain. Here I fell, and wore the garb of the dead. Invisible to the living and the departed, my path consumed the sky. I was bones, shriven of all hope. Ghosts dreamt of a turbulence that mothered my predicament. Buried and breathless, my own dreams were trapped like stones in ice. The sun’s force slowly cracked my heart, and from it rose moths and flies of every astonishing sort.

I listened to the mirror whose angles time’s hand adjusted with feverish care. I listened to the rushing water from beneath all dreams. The root of space penetrated my source, destroyed me, and the silence of my frames and fragments obtained no explanation from the night. When I was thoroughly departed, children without number read these furtive signatures; figures absorbing light through living moments in relation.