Erat autem hora tercia MK 15.25.


Now it was the third hour in transition. I am more than a traveler; I am the author of my destination. Each landmark is a new chapter waiting to be corporal. A whole itinerary renews itself. Outside the bus window the horizon is archaic, coded. What are these uncials and serifs that mark me? I am written delineated by my surroundings, pages turning into counties I donít remember. The folio of my memoirs is a testament. Cairns mark the burial of a thousand bodies, stones piled for reasons long forgotten. These pillars anticipate an urge to remember. Something about the earth is ready. Older still than calligraphy these pictographs hold the forgotten. They are precursors of the book. Media evolves, remakes itself from stone, to print to data. A new form of Rosetta is required. My expertise is too limited to decipher what can be salvaged. Triquetras carved on slabs leer from the remains of standing structures. Centuries have toppled them from their poise. And here are breaks - a whole network of cracks in stone where blue flowers burst forth to form synapses. As though they could testify, alone, to the ultimate design, the final folio.