As I have said, the casual atrophy here comes creeping in from all sides, as if about to strike the whole dim lit plain whose sole topographical features were great piles of onyx and an anxiety to preserve a these sometimes rotting petals as a means of discourse. They had to have risen from the north. Some cruelly unearthed vegetation and now a great deal of anticipatory crumbling and scratching, shuffling in the dark.
To reach this crest, this humbling nadir however was no longer any reason for going outside. Putrefaction alone will atone them and the great stone bridge where the Hatchery joins the ocean from a half across. The sun has already made it’s last graceful contact. It will become a great black arch and emerge in the old days when we are drawn away, with tepid fascination, towards wherever the petals might fall. There is a great deal we may trade to the dark. Perhaps these desiccated petals will make a fine gift…
The old man among us said it would be better to get the correct surface and loping in the whole collection from the vase-from cold and silence. But at last I must present this record through, to you, in a letter as speech might give new life to these stumbling blooms.
You have known and often spoken of making peace with compost. I have said, and maintain, that these few petals are a great deal to the still waters. It is better to Be than to be delivered finally into that unceasing chasam-or so I maintain. One starlit evening when the rest of the fauna and night fecund has settled in the cold wasting mist, we will known either of us to have been in the right.
But which secret?And which keeping would have been good only one of us will know.