(Alone. I am alone here in late autumn, the first snow already securing the land for winter.a All alone with my relics and totems and memories. I am alone, physically alone here in this cabin, beginning to piece together the mosaic that I hope will clarify for me a few people, a few deaths, and a vast space.
Alone, spiritually alone here, as are most of us wherever we are; and I have very little time, as little as most of us have whenever we are. But I have with me my short list of names, my garbled notes, Frederick's journal, and some books. It is from these traces of brief contact and from the long winter that I will extract the pieces for my mosaic, although right now as I sit here with the first page unrolling on the carriage of this old typewriter, I have no idea where this is going ... or where I am going. Closing my eyes I see concentric circles, starting to turn, beginning to whirl into spirals.)