The rickety, crumbling skeleton of the one-year-old miracle is rattling quietly like a secret.

And little bits of faded-jaded magic, still left in the reeks of musty pages of withered diaries, in saved emails and in the wind and the skies and the trees and in rags of thoughts left here and there on brown brick walls and cement floors of the roof-top, over the Patton tank, on the broken chair, about the tubs and the flowers; are wondering whether to be or not to be.

Whether to be, or whether there will be, a new story of three sixty five days.