The rushing wind is oblivious of the roiling leaves, or of the light dragging the shadows through the trees, or of our stories, the fusions of self and place, the iterations of mind, these expressionist forms, here, the buried matrices of time and space, the hidden fields of force from which all things emerge, and return, for some ends will never be written, they are memories of a future, a lost and tumbling mystery—infinity’s mockery and autumn’s warning.