the sun feels good on my face. it's 7 degrees. no walks today! there's barely any movement but smoke. my brain is packed in sleep. a hard therapy today. mute. bear's better. not much to say. have to work on communication. maria stepanova, the writer of in memory of memory, did a zoom talk with her translator yesterday. she talked about the post-memorial sensibility which i gather is the same thing as in memory of memory. not the same as forgetting. a place where memory gathered and left a presence compelling our sensibilities. i just get a feeling complete but inarticulate. talk about something inarticulable defines an area. i'll go back to wintering in a minute. there was something i was going to say... that's the feeling, and then feeling mute, and blinking, to bring moisture to the eyes. oh another thing they talked about was the need to make records for posterity of things daily that get directly buried in the cloud. and they talked of secreting things away, of burying not like rose  said—let the dead past bury the dead—but burial to preserve—though what is preserved in the cloud. again perhaps the post-memorial sensibility, in memory of memory, the no-place that supports a certain immortality, inarticulate and replete with exquisite feeling. something like sun together with cloud, emanating from elsewhere just as you thought.