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Show CHRYSALIS PAGE 244 Crickets fiddle ancient runes under the stones at our feet. Somewhere is this mystery of motion and sound lies the answer to the enigma of breath, of plasma and electron, cell and gene. And I wonder, at what point do the things of earth become things of the spirit? I have just begun. So, this is a portrait of a birth. The butterfly is finally emerging. The book is finished, Beth is pleased, and I am painfully anxious that it be good. I stayed up until two or three in the morning for weeks trying to finish the final draft. Now I need to move on to something else. Maybe I'll just think in iambic pentameter for awhile. Maybe I'll write another book, a children's book this time. I am full. Let me stay like this forever, lullabyed by family, by friends, by an unrolling of irrevocable love and intoxicant life. I hold it as carefully as mortal fingers will allow. Thanks. Everything is as it should be, and nothing will change, not ever, I tell myself. Encircled by sleepy children, Mark sings: "And hand in hand on the edge of the sand they danced by the light of the moon, the moon, they danced by the light of the moon." |