History is a hum. You must understand. Each of us unmade by the sight of the angel's strings; dulcet beat of its wings. Every announcement only bad news, of course: a husband's ship come to port; each man to blood; a mother's blinding brooch. The ubiquitous children lost. Just story, you know. No guardian. No just juxtaposition of sorrow on stage. Story. Standing water complete with swallowtails; simple facts, unsympathetic. In time, this skin is a vellum we read. Indeed, every word a step from ship to shore, madness to men like us interred in some granite mortuary. Go. Go and tell them that here I will lie mournful. No stone in this box left unstudied; each just another cold iris of the world.