As for the life you still love— are its interruptions and derailments caused by invisible powers? You don't have an answer either. Nor do you know if somehow you've incited their anger, made them feel they've had to put you in your place. Did you desire more than you should? Was it wrong to return, unopened, envelopes carrying endless messages of no, not you; surrender; or try again— and instead quicken to possibility? As for the depths that beckon with nets of shapeshifting light on their surface; as for what scores each leaf with beaten gold before night's expected overtaking—Sometimes you sit on the stone steps and feel the weight and unrelenting length of solitude, the depth of the simple wish to receive instead of give. But most of the time you return the way you came, back to where the soul dreams of interludes of quiet, even as the body picks up and sorts whatever the day scattered.