Oh, how much of what Malachy prophesied I could translate upon a dark computer screen just by muting out those poor invariable nights! In the end however, the recovered voice always calls, letting that inexplicable silence leak through the phone to Manning. The violent silence of Albert Savine, Castor, Pollux, the Argonauts or that of Rousseau's grumpy exterior pierced by Narcisse Virgilio de la Peña and his peg leg.

I begged for the sharp blade of Inspector Montalbano's reoccurring saber, or for that of Empedocles' dialogue, of Dos Passos' José Robles, of Thomas' White Horse serving aguardiente to the hieronicae. And then from within the glory of the olive a tiny black palm reappeared reading Fierro, thanks to Fidel Sclavo, the one who attends to who hasn't been said and reads what nobody has ever written.

Told to reclaim your missing valise, like Aldo's (ardent) or Margarita's (pinched), it's all salt in your fifth metatarsal. Then through a crescent Novalis make haste towards Pascal, or shall we agree to stop here? I yawn, because this has taken too long, wondering, "What was my uncle's name again? Floro?" I'll stick with you as you share with me the odor and rumor of that old ship, your murmur and clamor, your sighing sleepy machines.