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The entropy of a closed system tends to a maximum, I thought, picturing those coloured plastic letters on the fridge back home. I thought about Imogen, away from home for so long, and about what our marriage might be, or not be, when she came back. I thought about frayed phone cables and crossed lines over empty fields, and about all the silence and all the noise between my father and me. I felt the envelopes in my hand and I thought, ‘clue’ is an old-fashioned word for a ball of twine, promising guidance through the labyrinth. Was Black’s sphere photograph a clue? I thought, of course it’s a hook and beware raccoon traps promising answers. I thought, there is no labyrinth, no grand plan. Only chaos and collapse. Things just fall apart. I thought, ‘I talk to God, but the sky is empty.’

I closed my eyes, focusing on the thunder of leaves all around me.

The entropy of a closed system tends to a maximum.

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