HOW IS IT let it be night on the Muscatatuck and the escapee's houses drilled into the cuts in the land let it be fog moving on the surface of water like the last memory before the didn't-quite-kill-it-all blow to the head and the orchestra and robins go biddle-ee-dee-dum while the struggle to remember what to forget puts down roots like a dry tree in the desert let it be tomorrow or the next day the visit from the Man from the State with all his own problems but time to stop and enquire after yours how is it after all how do things that get done get done without your knowledge with only the mildest of intents with bare adequacy in the middle of nowhere