"Life starts amongst tears and caca." Tell us that, great Quevedo. Wednesday I walked with you straight to the end, erasing everything, and leaving me feeling we had finished with writing.

Before us past plumes have all but dissolved: generously, Nancy published an immaterial book in a collection knighted The Plume in the Air and wrought from a jovial writer, a believable poet.

Rodin, translated as Broglia (an understatement, is it not? the philistines would sustain), was named Tristan within the book illuminated by Nelson Ramos and not him, who seemed a brother to The Poet, now Thinker. And Rodin, during those truthful years, was Enrique, Enrique Fernández; later a serious Enrique Fernández Broglia and now mindfully Rodin.

Olga insisted that the tree planted upon the resplendent sun of Mixcoac Plaza was a false pepper. Ida and Valerio disbelieved and insinuated themselves within the sounds of the Gualeguay. But ultimately they were swayed, in the breeze, by Olga.

Olga enters Santa Maria Novella and kneels before the altar, seeking the fissure in those white walls of that cruelest hour. But no, her soul, a white dove, springs from her head, and flutters and flies and molds plumes about the heads of those devoted to little faith surrounding her. We are, very much and forever, in the splendor of a Florentine afternoon in summer.