In thought, eyelids shut, I can see static like a secret satellite signal beam to my bleary brain or a prototype video game, my virtual life. And memory a laconic raven perched amid allfather's wayworn strands; hard, leeched, with dusted pinion, expiry passed, less cogent or material but in lurking quietude over endless blank lines, the peregrine pen invokes the infinitesimal and for one effulgent second these holed and drafty walls drop away.