Let’s go back into writing, Ed. No more broken bones and thrown out arrows. Quit, you and I, the wounded driving, the electric wet lanes, the shame of beards. There is no greater prince than the prince of solidity. I’ve been eating two apples a day: one at dawn and one in bed, as I watch the boats cast out the nets. Brilliant night visions, all made of fruit and fish. Flashlights make perfect compasses, kid. Rage doesn’t. I still keep your tapestry underneath the wooded bed, whenever the structure is moved the rug is taken with it. Sorry about the word rug, sorry about the misspelling of lessons, sorry for not telling you about the rain or the effects of rain and yells all mixed together. No greater doom. Get your stuff, Ed. Nature is distressingly perfect around here.