An island becomes a scrap of the soul’s soil, its spittle, its gristle and expectorant. A solitude that calls from a digression as from an allegory. I refuse to invent chapters, this ocean of ink that persists a narrative like a wound that loves its fluency. After everyone misread the kernel, I found it changed for a newspaper. Commerce makes a monster when you try to tell its story. I have been trying to make something with a bunch of tangled strings, the ocean leaving salt on my hands. I don’t suggest the amnesia of birth or its hearsay signify much besides the length of a sentence. Can you hear me rambling? I’m trying to save Fortune from sin, with the business of her multitudes. A wild ambivalence of the speaking subject made me alternate belief and doubt. You say you have virtue. You’ve seen God’s breath on a cold morn, but have you boarded a ship without knowing where it goes, without so much as caring? This and habit have drawn my lots.