There is a woman who hides behind glass and the thick darkness of my dreams. Whose attendance always turns to the personal study where such tomes are better left unread. Whose fingers are longer than they should be and find their way gently touching the glass panels of a locked door. The lady...who has been quite disappointed in myself for some time. It has been hard in here, in the garden...and out on the lake. There is still work to be done though. From what life there is left there is work to be done.