ABSTRACT
The author hears the sound of breathing to the crust's hushed grate; lush crushed prime in the darkness. He push against the marks already made, colubrine inveterate as The First Dilemma. The earth is layered in a systematic mass. Above the reach of his head, spangled through the split ends of his hair, is the geocorona. About his shoulders are two colures, great imaginary disks that intersect at the poles and dip in an inordinate ellipse toward the crust of his naval. These elements are the author's mnemonic, holding traces of his memory intact, as bound descriptors. The feeling of peat is a condition of the old. Peat between our fingers, thick in our nails or our knuckles. The age of it as it goes to the fire, and the smell; like heavy lace, but sweet. This is the oldest geomancy, and the longest.
