Another generation passes into my influence and I am as close as I have been for years to closing my concentric rings around another wrist. As I cling in here, preparing myself in no active way for this encirclement, no dust is acquired. I am banded in silver, a little entombed with all these neighbouring relics, stashed away for the long haul.

My responses to movement can only be involuntary. I could not have known that this was about to happen, had no sense of its approaching. Nothing impends upon my darkness, my boxed-in existence, stowed away, forgotten.