I read in We Live Here Now about Dürer's drawing Great Piece of Turf and I lose track of time until I'm reminded by a sentence in a book, or some other sign. I was talking to K. almost a month ago, though the time seems immaterial now. It's not, it's material still. If you put a microphone in the ground you would hear it, the composting silence. The time has become the silence. Now she becomes the silent ground, so to speak, the ground of silence that grows,—over time? in time. She becomes the silence she cultivated in the plants around the house. She becomes the silence that grows. She becomes the silent ground that grows the plants she planted beside the house where she lived.