Bright beam full in my face.

Unfortunate noise on the headphones, what the--oh, Janacek, Taras Bulba I. Noted.

I start writing the final chapter in the little book today. Finished Chapter 6 yesterday with a 700-word burst.

Yesterday we walked out, all three of us together, to Cemetery Street (as I call it) and down to the end of the public road to where it becomes some rancher's private drive. We in fact entered the cemetery and strolled a couple of laps. Holding hands. BrotherB running ahead laughing.

What did we see? The cemetery deer herd grazing in the fallow fields across the way. Graveyard blossoms cloth fake flowers, wire stems plunged into the soft earth near their headstones, brilliant reds and greens against the dormant winter lawn. Warner Mountain Range to the east so brown and dry and patient waiting for drought to end. Our eyes his blue mine brown gazing steady and well, each into the other's, and recognizing the pure spirit again. And hear? Only our three voices entering and leaving us. What did we feel? Our hands, my left his right, clasped tightly together.

Our hearts soaring.