There is nothing left to write about, nothing to say. The day is an ocean with neither surf nor tide. Every place is a familiar place, every face a mirror. The books have all been read and learned and refuted. The news is not new, there is no new thing. The bread is stale, the beer flat, the wine water. There are many worlds and they are all the same. The spirits are dead but empty bodies walk the ways. It is a sickly world, wrapped in a clear fog. And from a low hanging naked branch: a new song.
