And thislast second or two of dreamingin which your facereturns to me completely. Noteven needing to be, beingso alive again to me.

Andthis letterI didn't sendhow surprisingto find it now.All this love I must have felt.

My memory of your casual smileThis memory, likea child's bit of sweet embroidery smuggledout of an asylum

The letters, the fading. The labyrinth, the cake. The four hundred brackish lakes of the brain. She searches for themusic, but she can't find it. Oh, God, it was hereonly the other day.