Maybe you are no longer what you have been and rightly so. The glass-paper has scraped us too, and the line that was left gets thinner. Yet something was written on the pages of our life. To hold them up against the light is to magnify that sign, form a hieroglyph bigger than the diadem that used to dazzle me. No more shall I see you emerge from the hovercraft or from the seaweed’s depth – skin-diver amidst muddy rapids – to give meaning to the living. You would walk down the Woolworth’s escalator, the only living person among masked corpses, and wouldn’t even ask if it was encounter, choice or message, and which of us two was the bull’s eye they shoot at in the fairground booths. Nor would I ask, since I have seen for an instant. and that’s enough for those walking in a crowd, as it happens with us, if we are still alive, or thought we were. All’s uncertain.