Something fell down by my house. A ton or more of white oak branches fell in the gap between Florenzio's house and our's. It took out part of his deck, and left an arm-thick branch dangling on the roof over our bedroom. The wind blasted this improbable slotting, this insertion of the stuff of disaster in a space where no disaster is, or will be. It was a noumenal wind, existing only in the mind of the tree. It blew straight down, and in all directions at once. like Pico Della Mirandola's definition of God, its center was everywhere and its circumference was no where.

Our space was tagged by the infinite, and we felt more finite than ever.