Absence doesn't frighten me, but its furrows. I grew old, and my burden is waiting for someone to slap the palms of tranquility. The hidden histories of absence coalesce within me. This is a time when vain flows and the stranger in a strange land is mocked. This is a time when one flees into panting, and people are bewildered by the wiles from which time's necks droop. Whoever frames this descent with wreaths of narcissus has the strength to plunge superstition into the well of life.