When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone in the woods. Henry sat in his small room grinning as each word claimed a place on the blank page, while Walden Pond's ice was cracking a cryptic hieroglyphics. Molecules danced again, static patterns rived apart. The world doomed is still a world, as it is. When there were no more words sprouting like vestal grass Henry laughed: There are ghosts, we don't read, see, or understand.