Now, when I've entrusted so much to the notebooks, death has to remain unwritten, and I purchase supreme quality gray yarn and watch the Lady peacefully knit a warm, no bullshit custom woollen sweater for me, explicitly without any patterns of any kind; a sweater to live in, to work the farm in, to think long thoughts in, to wear down like time wears me down, and time has already worn my face a long while. Snow has fallen for days on end, and we've been skiing the blizzards across the lakes, visibility kept at a minimum, faces shielded and windproof. One morn at first light I saw a red fox trip across my field of vision, by the forest at the horses' meadow's far end; a rare furred sighting of the shy one which we have named Yannis and usually just see the tracks of in the snow; a long winding line of paw tracks from the preceding night. Simultaneously, a woodpecker banged away at some frozen nutrients at the bird feeder outside the kitchen window, me barefoot on the cold kitchen floor, face reflected in the window, imagining my body burning explosively at its cremation; a happy thought of incineration of all concerns dancing in a thousand tongues of fire deep in the roar of Kali; the dark dismissal of Creation's egotism.