Listening in morning to the voices of Elena, Ivan, Jana, Michael who have dispersed alas—chatter, narrative, and noise thanks to Paul's Zoom recorder in anticipation of our spring collaboration with Agency—restless in delight over possibilities of composition involving aural transcription, translation alone, lacking the touch and look and crutch of the printed letter: a seemingly more ancient practice like the one recalled, again, corporeally, in reciting "My Life had stood—a Loaded Gun" from memory Friday, carrying forth the passage, the experiences accumulate colliding in words insistently physicalized, pointing out toward who knows what textures, what unanswering.