There is silence in the center of a jet engine. There is a blind eye stuffed in one end of the telescope–I won’t say which end. Shhh! If we cannot be quiet, be dark, then how will Death find us? Death has slippered feet like the butterfly, and many loving arms, like the octopus. Death will know us when we go down into our private blackness and wait there, like the wood wasp laying head-down for years in the dead tree hole she has eaten and eaten, her pulpy eggs laid cunningly in a mummified caterpillar.