The new road runs into the old road, turn west when your ankles hurt. The wind will be thinning itself in the grass. Listen, those thuds are bees drunk with plunder falling from the minarets of flowers like ripe prayer. Follow the path their bodies make. Faster. The dirt in that wineglass came from Chateau d'Yquem. You're getting closer. That pile of clothes is where some women enter the river. Hurry up. The last hill is called Sleep's Kneecap, nobody remembers why. This is where the wind turns back. From the ridge you can see the light. It's more like a bright soot really, or the dust a moth's wing leaves on the thumb and forefinger. This is where I turn back – you go the rest of the way by eating the light until there is none and the next one eats along the glow of your extinguished hunger and turns to the living.