I'm waking up a server in Australia to write this for you. Over miles these memories seep, through bedrock cold, past bone and history, shivering aside friction-worn dust of a billion lost loves. That's where you are now, you too soon and I too late. There under the recycling and the regret, slowfilling a volcano dormant from fury, I see the silver trails of our lives, those hesitant, curled and jittery reminder paths. Bold turns considered, shortcuts unravelled, but mostly rote walking between the lines, a GPS boredom. Blindly leading ourselves downhill, numbed and comforted with the familiar, a smear of forgotten years. This calendared path is where we are going next, birthday candlelit, inevitable tourists. Black to blinding, we're crystals to be shaped, jewels from dust, unblemished in memory, unmarkable for once. As you are.