I almost forgot my bike when I picked up my car this morning. The mechanic had to remind me that I had left it leaning against the wall. “People leave all manner of things here,” he told me. I drove through morning traffic and remained captive to currents of indecision. I drove all the way home, hours passed and then I was home again. My home has become a dusty trail in which all manner of fates are lamented. I remind myself over and over that if I am here now it is my doing. Should the worst happen – should long resolutions spin slowly and abjectly through the night, only to become tangled in the fiery tendrils of dawn, it will not have gone unanticipated. The darkness of this awful night is now safely ensconced. It has no need to gather itself up, because it is already lucid and coherent. It speaks to me of her eyes. I cannot see her eyes. I cannot see the shadows in which she abides and disappears. I cannot see her endless changes.