You, me, and whoever wrote these words, here may we rest a while. And talk with the dead. Searching minds commune with the silence in which the dead have vanished. Yarns spun like a spider’s web across silence. The weight of fiction. We catch the drift. 300,000 years of human traits and transit, conversational, generational, the same yearning, cave paintings from animal séances, burial crypts with what the dead need, where they go. Flip the hourglass. Loop time. We are the dead.