The letter for fog is a lamppost in the dark, lively
O of haloed light, that glimmers somewhat alike to O on wet ground below. The
letter for Friday isn’t the same as Monday, as he descends again at five
towards a world not found in the book he’s reading on fourteenth-century
mystics. The letter for fire persists in their writing, shaken to life in the
grate at Prime, daily reminder, cold as may be, love will awaken and breathe
again. The letter for frankincense vies with that for Fairfield as he looks up
from reading on his early train.
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