In this garden nothing falls so slowly as the rain. Sitting beside the chinese roses and cilantro I loosen the ribbons that hold the letters together, separating page from envelope, all the generous correspondence unpacked. As the drops strike the pages some of the letters crumple further. Under the dampness the ink fades. Photos come unglued.
Words move into the fabric of the paper until what remains is a texture.
A roughness in my hands. . . . . That was the year I stopped answering his letters. You can always remove it later. You can always remove it later. We Descend by Bill Bly, like Notes from Absolute Zero , is an artifactual hypertext.