Our daydream decelerates our own spinning planet one millimeter-per-second per century until we have matched velocity with it and can stride into our lives and live again — a matter of eons, nothing to them, so patient, since the massed wish of all the dead is only the slide of a hem across a floor, or the difference on your face of milder air. It is their fate, they murmur. It is anyway their way to shun the theatrical or gothic gesture. They would not rattle chains if chains could hold them. It is the wind, so much stronger, that slams doors. They are heard, if ever, in the dramas of your dreams where you cannot tell still voices from your own, intervening, if at all, in the neural substrate, shunting a lone electron maybe or maybe not. Theirs are evasive and oblique persuasions, stone by stream, for example, snows on outer planets, undetected constants haunting physicists, eddies where time runs sidelong or remembers. Their delight is yielding, wind within the wind, to faint velleities or fainter chances, for they find among death's consolations, few enough, the greatest is, to be mistaken for what happens. When your eyes widen, they are surging to observe the evening's trend to mauve, and all you have chosen so slowly you are unaware of choosing. And you may feel them feel, amused or touched when your blunt patience emulates their own, when you sense, like them, all fate might well be focused in the exact glint of a right front hoof uplifted, when you wait, as they must, for that crisis of precision when it will make all the difference in the worldwhether a particular petal's side-slipping fall hushes the rim of a glass, or misses.