The wholly absent is a void, yes a blind hole into where we stumble. A dynamic of physics where all at once we go. No doing of our own. But nowhere do traces of us really fade. The pedestrians still sense us here. In October like so many others and through all eight Russian seasons, I was stretching time in my palm, before the Seven Sisters. One eye closed to focus and one hand swinging round to count all the red stars of Moscow. My fingers squeezing eternity, urging it to pass away, but not just yet. Every bit of both of us remains imprinted on reams of memories, a glossary without an index. Using synonyms for notes, to wander in the shell of my ear, it reached into my heart. They waver like sound across the sea. I hear you in the hum of voices, and thoughts press up tight and sure against space and time. My pulse quickened then with your goings and comings. In my mind I replayed your double time march. There are pictures to remake you of course, there are every days to find you again in an imagined order and in no particular place. I am caught in some illusionary ethic. Believing it will all turn right around until Sunday turns into mine. Thursday we'll find our souls and Saturn's rings will find us standing on the solid, spinning rings on the certain whirling, purring of the very same ground. That is precisely the moment when our shameless love, our private knowing aloud, will chant promises to our skin. Maybe even give way, to sow, to yield to a dimple of our impish glow. We will at once be not at all the least bit imperceptible or naked to the passer-by.