I think of you often, Deucalion. Of how you cared for me when my mind was torn apart on seacoast rocks. Your eyes were massy, bold. They saw into my heart, so sad and lost. The fingers of your hands like the kind roots of the fig, wrapped around me; lifting me gently from that bloody rock, Tarpeian scourge, which I had known so long. You kept me hidden, sang to me, kept me safe inside your soft membrane, through which I watched the silhouettes of waving trees, heard the call of insects and the pulsing of bio-machines. I felt your presence so often in those days, so often at night when my sobbing caused the soft walls to reconvolute, I would hear you sighing too. We belong too much to others, Deucalion.