Psükhé. What is life. Life is life. Life is untranslatable. Life is the attempt at translation. Of what into what? I remember when Rose died and her soul rose with the fluttering shadows of butterfly decals applied on the sliding glass for the prevention of the death of birds and for the shadow dance on the bed. I remember holding her in a box on my lap driving up Mount Tamalpais. I had to use a church key to open the box and cut my hand. I remember her ashes rose in the ocean wind, into our faces. life is breath, everything breathes, breath is everywhere, even in death, the air is the breath of the world.