fragments from the day before: veins snapping like serpents, a sleeping stone no longer there, a wide-brimmed hat. You are at once sure that you will see the hat again, those girlish fingers again, and you will demand: How do I -- He will terminate the question with a shake of the head. Another fight. Custom, continuation, regurgi-tation. Your traces are unmistakeable, everywhere. The simple rearrangement of a branch as you step on it, even the echo and reflection of a whisper you made years ago -- these are all known to you. Details and circumstance are forgotten, but there is no doubt when you see, hear, touch your tiny leavings. So it is with anticipation and a clenching of the heart that may be the onset of fear that you realize that you have never been here before. This is a flatland like any other, and the fields are inevitable with wheat, but still, this Lin Page 16 is your first visit. Cicadas rattle about you as you wade in -- even each of these insects is unfamiliar to you -- and divots in the ground guide you in different directions. Ahead, you hear something, a harumph, an exhalation of impatience, not unlike a horse chewing hard on its bit with shredded teeth, but inaudible to earthly ears. You approach silently, your feet merely brushing against the ground of dead matted grass. And there he is, crumpled on his side, one whisker decayed to nothingness, the other still as insolent as a whip. You close your eyes and listen. You listen to the breath racking his body, and you know, not long now. His jade eye fixes itself on you; Finally, he says. You reply: I left you alone. You requested that. He snorts once more, and shifts so he is flat on his belly. His skin glitters pool-like in the sunset, amidst the golden wheat. You lost patience, he croaks. You, in your pride, said you did not need to know, that you would not see me.