I hadn’t had my hearing left. I didn’t hear a thing. All memory of tomorrow had been like a rag wiped across a window wiped away. Leaf, salmon, ladybug, when the sounds of these were gone, were like something else less known. Some jumping man jumping across the moon. Everything was fixed. Nothing was flawed. Nothing was in error. The universe was perfect. From it nothing else ever was to be made. No grooves in time were to be split. No diamonds to be cut. Syllables of eternity were etched. I had wished to hear a party horn again, the curled up paper unfolding with a child’s outward breath of joy. I had wished to hear the grating of a metal mailbox’s metal latch. In between the vacuity of all that there must have been some dust, some remaining remnant of the afterlife of being lurking there. Some wolf in the stars must be hiding in that thick mass of darkness, its fur bristled, its yellowed eyes prepared again to gleam, its red tongue hungry for prey, slouching in the infinitesimal to strike.