Everyone wants the same things—to belong, and to not be left behind—but still, does it help? Perhaps. Once, in a fable: a man in a tree. Once, in a fable: the trace of his thinking, the sound of his singing. I like seeing things: a hand, the moon, ice in a highball glass. The light of the mind illuminating the mind itself. Put it in a tree. Hide it in plain sight and climb higher. We are all of us secret agents, undercover in our overcoats, the snow falling down.