In this glass and concrete suitcase, glancing on sky drift and the tall nuns of shipping, nodding on the reflected river and shuffling brick containers in an anonymous card game. In a meeting about the orchestra and tending our garden of weeds, I am a wizard with no magic, just gnomic phrases and a white beard. The translucent pattern of a cloud caught and reflected as a palimpsest covering our shared dream-notes, distracting me from the non-sparkle of everyday air. Somehow the future is the past. We deliver representations of our quixotism in memory, despite the refracting emptiness of clouds and the non-enchantment in our bodies.