Across the depths of the gathering night – in ebbs and flows, but ascending – it rains. I had walked in it, pelted with huge wet drops. And now I have escaped it. This table remains dry, although clearly it has a future that I cannot countenance, cannot adequately know. Gathering lightning in the now dark sky. A tiny rubber band beside an empty glass of wine. A white plate with knife and fork lying side by side, intimately – like some married couple before anything happens. But I am still listening to the rain, only the rain and the far away sound of thunder. I had not expected the rain to return. Why has it been drawn back? Will the new week repeat the last? How is one week to be distinguished from another? I am posing dumb questions. Expect no more more from me. All the objects in my world remain still. There is nothing that I can say that will adequately explain. There is nothing that I can do to understand.