I feel the wars fading in back of my life. I sense them falling off in the snow flurries like old flakes of skin; artillery, trenches, tanks. I meet my sister in a dream; we are reconciled; she's 84, and maybe the dream readies me for her imminent death. The night before I met my late American wife Judith in another very strong dream: I took a bus to where she was, but she was angry at seeing me, telling me not to look for her. Maybe these dreams instead announce my own demise, slipping recklessly and hopelessly across the line in a strange tense, a strange light. I'm jotting this while hearing an interview with Martha Gessen on Swedish Radio, forgive me, so whoever dies, lets call for the death of the dictator while the wars are fading at the back of our minds, just like songbirds dispersing in all directions, and observe; Putin is nothing but a really bad habit, which we all can cut. My hands are full of deeds and my wrist displays a gold watch from the Police; long and faithful service. I'm reappearing in myself with the regularity and stubbornness of a bureaucrat and a fool. The war is raining, the war is snowing, the war is shining from a clear sky. The mood swings from birth to death. Humanity's eight billion voices all have something to say, but I cut them up electronically, stir them and enjoy the ring of the mixed choir. Those who don't yet exist, by a long shot, converse cheerfully and carelessly in the preparations for the ensuing, while the blood dwindles in my own recollections, the sudden bull bawling of the snow scooters in the chill startling. I go pick up a book by Birgitta Trotzig, read, lie, let lay.