Nothing but the books. I read newspapers, in oblivion. Glass hands. Next to my one foot an open book was engaged in light conversation with the wind. The wall around the words. You wanted to say something, you kept silent. Days. Weeks. Friends. The coffee I am drinking is mild in its taste. In the night a distant voice had nearly fallen asleep. You lost the thread, but come follow my wet crystals. When I woke up, I was certain: It was before the diamonds, even before the movement of my fingers through shadows, through hair, through town plan after town plan. I get the day going, writing quietly.