Always the world is going to hell; most of the time, it’s already there. It’s up to where you’re standing. Cataclysms coming, cataclysms gone, the scars on mind and skin, yet hardly a dint in the air on each fine morning. It’s parable, the sun- rise. It’s inevit- able. It’s arriving.
What was that hurt you carried so lightly as we walked but so heavy in you? The way you played those strings, moved your fingers into music . . . was that . . . What music did you play only in the terrible shadows where so much of you lived? It was not me … More Not Me Who Moved the Rocks