Kindling tops mirrored in the magnificent glass. Desolate landscape — You have arrived at a place where dreams are made. A fire in the air, incandescent ideas. Letters slipping beyond my reaches — Creak, crack, bridges breaking. A shattered soul clinking, “I am Silence, surveying the clouds; the sun again, I think.” School-shoe black hair Towering over the trees Puffing all the autumn leaves askew Dust melts into my lungs I dropped down and down and down— -Emilia Koczy