Thousand: Five Hundred Twenty-Six

body, like a footprint, like the trail a worm leaves in mud. Most such traces wash away quickly, aren’t even seen, let alone read. But some movements, some dances, have consciousness, and you can contemplate what they leave. The world is written all over. Jack snaps the notebook shut and slips it back into the pocket. He drains the cup into his mouth and gazes up indifferently at the shoddy tapestries. They are supposed to look woven. That they don’t, that they look like poorly printed imitation weaving, is what makes them so disappointing. You don’t have to have the