Rowan, Rowan. I am revising the floes for you while my axons find a new side. My tears are bigger than my eyes. Quivering bricks invade my black leg. Your horse had sex with Atziluth, so I made marble my new name. I’m stalling until the world understands. I’m whittling until the snow turns to blood. I get the hang of things, and sap pours out of me again, because Jesus is dead. Veils like mine only hide that there’s nothing behind them; day is the great veil, which is why I have twelve grandfathers.