Tell me when I’ll be ready. The maritime metaphor is loaded to the brim, the plumb is submerged, the masts creak impatiently and the deck is strewn with supplies and valuables and animal specimens of all kinds. Swaying beneath the deck are chests overflowing with symbols, which percolate from riddle to riddle. At least tell me in some incomprehensible language, is there any chance of survival in the face of wayward verbs, decomposing nouns, prepositions as porous as the night? It always dawns late in January. In the distance, highway noise and an unusually cheerful warbling. The echo of footsteps crossing the Mathematical Bridge. I’ve asked enough in my sleep and am no longer hungry. It’s light enough for me to hear the grass growing from my skin and to feel the roots of the wild thorn across my forehead. I forget. My only ally is a lie and my last betrayer is dust.