. . . . . . .

Almost too late: the rooms were entered just as they decided to cease. A half-remembered cleansing is en- acted from memories braided into the fat of the walls, which divide fields into farms to fend off foxes.

Till the hour that an allpast gatherer of superstitious gestures steps through, around, and nearby. Tilling and archiving and tucking into phylacteries worn on the forehead to guard against sadness, inevitable forest and inevitable sea.