The Cool Pool of Salvation, Gowns Made of Light, Flickering Fish like Flame. We walked to the border of a war-torn land where the children turned to men after one night of sorrowful dreams. Where the sky was open like a tunnel of light toward the eternal. The earth was scattered with glistening scraps of ballgowns of the women who wander the fields, snagging the hem of their gowns gathering light, sequined scraps for grazing goats.

Reflections in the Rain and Terrain of Manchester. This year has evolved into my fleeing from the public sphere, exhausted from languages, ambitions, ambassadors, seascapes, cancers, and all the other tales and tragedies of human life. Everything is outside my windows now. The year of windows and reflection. For the past eleven months, I am behind glass or within it. The windows of those incredible French Gothic cathedrals, whose colored glass overtook me with rainbow. The beloved sunlight crashing throu.

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