Which is the hand that felled the tree that pulped the wood that made the paper that is now beneath the hand of the letter writer. This is long after the grunts and hums became marks and patterns became language and image became this ancient form of together apart. Ink transfers the centuries. The writer’s mind is its own quarantine, its inklings firing and re-firing, possibility bound. The paper is a cosmos of aloneness and hope—fixed in letters, stamped and sent. To the reader, the envelope is outside promising inside, a desired knowing. Once read, possibility unbound.