On waking this morning the tear, the rent — the shattering blue tocsin in the smoke grey sky, that first appeared a week ago, ripping its way to the top of the tower, has splattered blue exclamations through me, making me like one of the dreamed-up ones, blotted by brightness, while the smudged orange rubble fires on the horizon continue to mark the perimeter. And now the silencing device in my throat is giving me trouble. Spiked like a pollen grain and injected into the voice box, it swells there, pining it shut from the inside. And naturally any writing devices — mechanical, electronic, chemical, genetic — are not permitted. The fuel marauders and suicide detonators might be anywhere, and they live on information, of which they must be starved. Splattering is everywhere. So I’ve horded the old newspapers where messages a scrap of light can now find on a shadowed page — spangled bracelets of tiny instruments, areolae of fierce blue — direct, my needless to say illegal, research into emergent thought vessels, this voiceless voice you might be hearing inside your head.