First I moved toward where I thought I would find it, where in my dream I told myself to find it. Holding nothing, so I could react, I just kind of slowly mingled in the space, where I knew it was. Sometimes I held my arms outstretched, so when the letters tumbled they could bounce off of me first before they collected on the ground or the page. This seemed to work, so I took a chance and said my first word, kind of like a question or a prayer, but just one word. I retracted into a space of stones. Nothing returned, but they still fell, and I opened a glass jar of red pigment. My eyes are not accustomed to color, I realized, the water rolled down my back. My hands are useless, I thought, but I could write that, so not totally. I stepped back into the arena, and felt everyone suddenly around me, I miss them, I sense their support. I was determined to do this alone, but that was an illusion, it cannot rain like this without direction or decision, into melted sound. Please, if you would, for the sake of.... I dropped the jar, and then was known to all. Is this the inevitable outcome? Eyes, sprouted limbs, melancholic limits, How could they withhold for so long? I admire them. So I moved toward the stump, with no real expectation or anticipation. In my pocket was the map I had hidden from myself. It was marvelous, really open and beautiful, the space where it used to live, and now I knew I had found it, because it no longer existed, except for the lines evenly spaced and the story of the drought, the fire, the rocky and sandy soil. Hanging from the branch was a bag, and a despondent moment of hope, brushed by a falling leaf. It's only my voice, alone, when I say another word, for instance, when I say this word: "plain," but the echoes mutate into form, and I can relax, so I'm never alone. I know, no one can say otherwise, I know this happened. It is a map of my thoughts drawn in the dirt with a branch, that's all.