on my Ararat. I lost them. Smashed my magic. Go back there: pace the path down my mountain of error below the snowline, the triggered tracks of white hares. At nightfall, lay yourself on the heather beneath the lone fir; listen for his purling, turning a world without words’. His eyes slide into themselves, a snail’s horns. The Gypsies wrestle him to the ground as a seizure wracks him. ‘Our hands are open books of what we have lived,’ he raves. ‘Do you want to read me? Do you want to read my life?’ He holds out his hands. He holds out his trembling hands.