The campus, an academy of trees, under which some hand, the wind's I guess, had scattered the pale lightof thousands of spring beauties, petals stained with pink veins; secret, blooming for themselves. We sat among them. Your long fingers, thin body, and long bones of improbable genius; some scattered gene as Kafka must have had. Your deep voice, this passing dust of miracles. That simple that was myself, half conscious, as though each moment was a pagewhere words appeared; the bent hammer of the typestruck against the moving ribbon. The light air, the restless leaves; the ripple of time warped by our longing. There, as if we were paintedby some unknown impressionist.