Lantern low — Lisa wrote it down

I am writing this because the hall keeps a shorter version of lantern low — lisa wrote it down than the one I lived through. If you only heard it at the table after bread, you might think nothing happened. Something did. Nothing here is a shop. Not the jars, not the apples, not the boats, not my time. Ask with your name on the day you mean it. I will not reply to every thank-you. I will notice if the kettle is on the cellar stair again.

If you disagree, say it before Friday twenty minutes, or write mail. A thread that grows on Saturday without a note becomes a rumour, and Sander will read the rumour as bread. I will not reply to every thank-you. I will notice if the kettle is on the cellar stair again.

Someone will ask again in a week. The answer will have the same shape: read the paper, read the board, write two lines if you need a bed, and do not invent a meeting that was only rain.

I read this walking out to the path. I was not there for the whole evening, but I was there for the part where someone moved the map and Elise made the face she makes when the map is not folded. That is enough context for me. See you Thursday if the weather agrees.