Any gift of the spirit can evaporate away in an instant, and arise in another instant. You only know how to blindly grope your way towards them, or where you imagine they might be found, those you might still recognise: a collection of disparate and outmoded curios; certain flavours of recollection and broken intimacies, little pieces of abandoned histories still dear to your heart. Thought is just so much noise, what you crave is surrender and oblivion. Forget about the mountains, make your home in the valleys. Return a penitent, reclaim every item of baggage, and start again at the foot of the stairways.