The celestial machine twisted and did thread the subtle knots else some knots comfort us but turn out to be diversions as to what is really going on. Writers speak to Identity. But Identity is dust. We are all the same author. Bells toll for slaves in the sad of seasons’ languages and tongues whose cold beds refuse of the seven sleeps of having dragged him before tomorrow fills the room with the agony of bones ground down in the grinding of the great machine. There is no such thing as recompence.