The ideal, whispers the quiet wind, is not necessarily the trimmed trees, the tightly composed book. The ladder up to the sentence: I was the one who called the police. Glass hands. Where does ruined language want to go? A line threatened to intervene in my thoughts, to seduce my thoughts, terrify my thoughts. As if someone had written, blindly, on their own memories. The intimacy in writing. For every layer of meaning in the stones. The fire.