Thousand: Seven Hundred Thirty-Five

is longer. Track to trackless wastes, path through a void unmapped. It’s a long cold way to go. Once you get past a certain point, the cold doesn’t deepen. Time, in my formulation, gives up and goes to sleep. Maybe to sleep is where you fall, too, all alteration unfound, the curvature of space providing the long slide you follow. Space counts only when a return seems inevitable, the sun again more than a fleck, its warmth at last shaking the dust off the face. Not that the face is anything but dust. One is dust. Dust thou art. When