Each day I woke as it started to get dark and the pain came. Month after month of this—who knows when I got well, the way you do, whether you like it or not. With dawn now, risen from the rampage of sleep, I am walking in the Lincoln woods, a mile or two of train tracks out of Walden, first sapphire glint of Flint’s Pond to the right through the winter trees. A single bird is loudly singing. It sounds like something saying you can dwell in your mind on a name as though with magnifying glass upon a single word until the word’s browned out, begins to smolder, opening a hole in the fabric of space and in a rapidly widening circle the light from which all things were made, long locked within, is un leashed and the whole universe is laid waste; you can hone a blade until there is no blade; oh you can look into the sun until all looking’s done. Will I be getting some ecstasy back, please? If not that then terror, primordial, to dog me, unseverable as my shadow, dilating my pupils, give me some motherfucker of a shock, about thirty seconds of it ought to do the trick—to its isolate, crystalline itselfness restore each leaf, each grain of soil, and to the names assigned things give back immemorial obviation, allow them their dolmenlike mystery again, then, restoring them to the night of identity, their pre-sentience reality. This is great. Just what I needed, more literature. Give back violence, hatred, lust, anything. So, I am actually here, and on top of that walking: I did it before, and I am sort of determined to do it again. I walk once more as though from room to tall room in a house where the owner’s not home yet watching me somehow; I have the impression my behavior is being observed, and my thoughts listened in on, somewhat critically. But not overly. And get this. I even feel liked, I could swear it, at certain instants which are gone the moment they begin. The sunlight changes swiftly, leaving, leaving and arriving again from so far away. That invisible bird is still bitterly chirping, as if these words were meant for me, as if their intent is within me and cannot speak, cannot make itself clear. Nothing is left me of you.