The day’s fluid departure ends in exhausted purples. No one would be able to say who I am, nor know who I’ve been. I came down from the unknown mountain to the unknown valley, and in the languid evening my steps were tracks left in the woods’ clearings. Everyone I loved had forgotten me in the shade. No one knew when the last boat was. The post office had no information about the letter that nobody would ever write.

But it was all false. They told none of the stories that nobody told them, and no one knows anything for sure about the one who departed long ago, placing his hope in the false voyage, son of the fog and indecision to come. I have a name among those who tarry, and that name is shadow, like everything.