Sancte Iohannes will hoodwink Empedocles into finishing off Holderlin and Arnold–not Benedict, another traitor. As well as Mount Etna over whose shadow centuries later Sarah and Aeneas will stumble, like nomads singing its curious solfa-tara.

But peering fore and aft Sunday seemed a day not apt for a hoy in Vigàta, but rather for a saunter upon Tepeaquilla. Not for a fleeting persephonic view, but for an eternal Tonantzin and for those special roses recovered in Juan Diego's wrap. But Cristinica would know better; well versed in the apparitions of the Blessed Virgin, we could listen for twelve thousand and twelve hours. Because for her, those hours are inhabited by music, which we know to be the fare of love, and of Love, though a strident Rhaetian once denied it during various of those hours via a well-worn second person sacred quotation from Lacan-Son.

There used to be such good tempo in Leucippus, now non tanto, as we knew him so well. And also among followers of Tantalus, summing six thousand and sixty-six.

But play on, allegro con spirito, until our appetite falls ill.