My dear Soiselle, wrote Blurtseau, the sea is surly and the day has expired, unremarked and replaced forever. The crew grow restless in their rocking cradle, and I retreat, hoping to find you in the ink on this page. Ma chère Soiselle, I am a root entangled, a dark stone in the flickering light. Not a month, two months pass before I am reborn in your arms, but a sleepless lifetime, a slow marching of shadows. And after the words--light, wind, fire--there are only lines, paper and ink, and the repetition of repetition. I can fill the page, synchronize the sounds, and between margins try to live, but it is impossible to paint your smile, or raise a rose, with emptiness. Ma chère Soiselle! The spark grows wild in the wind! The eyes flash from the fire! Then the flower returns to the root…