Where are the new names, the fireflies? Where are the surface seekers, the improbable souls? Mourn for your leaves, your ashes, and your patient absurdities. There was a boy who planted books by the river where the raspberries floated adrift. The day is in the oven. Trouble me gently, let’s go visit the dead. Silence is all but sadness and there is no vengeance. For whom? I’ll miss you all when I wake up.