Out of the O of the human crown crowd our infinite, infantile alphabets. They are crystal wand and blunt instrument. Out of the O of ink bowl, says a second myth, our alphabets walk and somersault over drying mud and mattressed reeds. They clarify and confuse. Moon, in reassuring Orbit, changes abstractly through September. Earth, our only O, bigger than all of us, is yet a blue dot in our grey brains. One myth says the last syllable of recorded time will be a whimpered O. Another says that every letter ever offered will return into the hole of O.