The wintering flocks, lit from below, now, in instantaneous digital retrospect, writing on the sky, becoming-historical record of swoop tracks over the Capitoline, confettiish over the dutiful digital copy of Marcus Aurelius erect in state. Writing in Latin spilling in rays, rivulets down the Palazzo Spada's mannerist facade, Council of State, glimpsed as quivering slice from the Campo dei Fiori, maculated: loops of Aeneid verse, in Charles Sandison's xenon management, stone and textuality expressive in their inverse, aswum.

"L'immacolata non è qualcosa di intoccabile, bello, puro. Non è—come noi pensiamo delle signore—un soprammobile da mettere lì sullo scaffale, da spolverare, da esporre. Maria non è questo. Ma fa parte della nostra storia...." "The Immaculate is not untouchable, beautiful, pure. She is not—as we think of ladies—a knick-knack to place on the shelf, to be dusted, exhibited. Mary is not this, but part of our history...." Patches of priestly discourse heard while peeking into another church dedicated to the Virgin in the environs of the Cenci Palace.

Lofted up the Janiculum, so-thin barrier to exhausted rabid heart, finally confessional, articulate, "distrutto."

Nun-nurse then to administer a vaccine, followed by allegorical apple. Chocolate, hazelnut.