Ask me for the shape of things and I shall pick you up a pebble. Let the wind answer for me. This bit of hair, this dust of skin. After the communiqués, I shall take courage and be wrong.
Ask after the old and the new and I will find you some soil, my sandbox to play in, some knitting, there will be no albums. Money, photographs, leaves, they all fall slowly. I cherished them once. And I will tell you of the span of ten fingers, all dreams and air, and the desperate need for record-keeping.