My mind is rustlingleaves, sound shadowsand deadening echoes. The feel of his proximityand the wall when a blindman is walking too close. Like a black panther, itfinds its way by vibrations, when the night gets too dark.In the morning, it is fresh again,a patch of parsley green moss peering through the paper-thin fleshof birch trees. The ones Ellison playspeekaboo behind, and the reason dovesconsole each other, and why the universeis so cold and silent and empty, yet arrivesat my doorstep like a bouquet of flowers.