Here's a good place, let's talk by Omacatl, my brother, let's talk of fire and thorn, not seeking differences but an understanding, of my sister's stories, of my mother's, my lover's, how it is that each of these burns her own tools before dying. How it is that this is the life of women, even now. I think the fire is like the hypertext link: it leaves in place what it passes over, touches each thing with the shape of its own shape, much as a fire when it is hot enough moves relentlessly to ash yet in this rush holds the shape of the logs intact. The ash facets of the logs are like ancient faces, airy, grey and serene yet gone in an instant should anyone foolishly dare to touch them, gone in a gust of breeze, or an incautious breath. There is, I think, a look which keeps the shapes of things intact even as they pass from us. I have seen it twice now in my life as a death guide, helping the dying ones hold and leave what they are holding. It was this way when my mother died: "She's still here," I said after. My father did not understand, "O is she?" he cried and ran back into the room, a mirror in his hand to hold her breath. It was this way when my father-in-law died (himself leaping over the hills after in the shape of fire). Hypertext is like that.