It seems I have been talking since I got here. It is that, as much as the altitude, the dry air and bright sun, that keeps my head aching. In a pocket of quiet, Will showed me the book he's reading on Elliot's "Wasteland". We looked up words: phatic, hyperglossia, metanym. The language of analysis hooks and holds me, keeps me from surrendering to the poetry, never to be seen again. On the phone, Gus tells me Dude is dead. He says, "Mom, he's really stiff this time. There's no question."