SNOWBELL: A MOUTH

This space. A hush. Windsound outside, Willard. Do you hear it? I know you must. Darkness everywhere but I saw some today. It has been another quarter-year almost. The weather's turned and turned again. I have been gone from here. Moved further north with the snowline into Canada. I've been tracking it. I know I had said that when the last bit melted off that was it for me, that I would find a way out of place, this space. It was partly fear. Of being. Of being without and away from it. As if my body would melt in the warmth. As if my bare skin would be torn away by sun, turned to ash, a tuning fork underneath the radiation. It has been a dozen weeks at least.

And then came hail. Tiny pellets. The usual bombardment. We get prediction then we get weather. In Marquette they expect a foot or more this week. It will be upon them in that remote place, in the dark heart of Michigan, and they will be knee-deep in it.

You knew it wouldn't last, though, didn't you? I am in love, surrounded by darkness, returned to this lonely moment. Temperature will drop and all of this will come again.

[Fragment]