“My tunes and numbers are here. They have filled my years, the years when I refused to die. And in order to do that I wrote, I wrote, I wrote, at noon or 3:00 A.M.

So as not to be dead.” Ray Bradbury

Ray, at 91, has died.

There are no words. We just make sounds at each other, among others, by ourselves. There are no words. We are in our corners we made. Each cornered, making sounds into the room. There are no words we make that will open the hand.
The open hand is feared, as it must slap. We open our hand, to cover our gasp; to hide our mouth loud, to reject a grasp. There are no words.