On the morning of voices one speaks, “Often I am permitted,” a voice (a hearing). Who is next among the phrases? The one with the mischievous smile. “Why is your light bulb full of wine?” Another answers, “Because water symbolizes time.” In a bright orange sky, clouds gather in clear glasses of air. A vertical song over the earth sighs, “It is a long way to jasmine, ever the fir climbs.” Next are the children in the bulrushes, waving colorful flags. In the bottom of the boat are eggs. “Open, my little chickadees, open yourselves for miles.” In a while the dials spin, clicking little frames. The first is a series of boxes, stacked in a daisy chain. The second is a round little wheel, calling a forgotten name. The third does not speak, the fourth does not cry, the fifth is a part died when six turns easterly and exits the stage. “It is here,” he said, “I cannot even get it on the page.” The letters ignite; the flames destroy the code. One whispers, “You have not finished the dance. Listen carefully for the tone.”