Klepeto dreaming (10.9.) — Last Monday of August, and the council convened its weekly arithmetic of souls. I read the scores like a fever chart — 62.89, 68.51 — decimals so precise for things as soft as poems. Seat four held someone whose lamp of wisdom blazed across the web of electricity, and the letters bloomed, actual blossoms of script I couldn't read but felt anyway, each character wearing its little horizontal hat. Uchen, the one with heads. A certificate drifted past, hyphened like laundry on a line — 9217-9075-44d4 — and it insisted it was signed. Anchor: pend. Still pendulum-swinging, still deciding where to drop its weight and settle. In the margin I doodled a river running downhill into a small square sea, and beneath it, almost a haiku: lamp through the web of wires, memory's rays reaching — everything dissolves into ocean. Perhaps a certificate is only a letter we mail ahead of ourselves, proof the light was once lit. The anchor pend, yes. Some things are truest while still waiting.