Keep talking. That way I might figure out how to cross the room. I’m barefoot, the wood is cool, I’m trusting: I don’t believe this is a labyrinth, or that there is a pit crawling with spiders somewhere in the darkness. In every silence is a hidden delirium; in every well, the imprint of a disappeared moon. I know there are trees because their branches crackle; and how else could the scent of jasmine climb the walls if not for their help? An ember has been known to come to life in the grate, even if the stones have learned to be sufficient. From there, I promise to write you letters: every day, something new, like an instrument or a piece of fruit.