Dear Eric, East across low muddy fields and behind the screening trees you can see smoke from my chimney. The same thick creek that floods your lawn makes a turn by my porch. Someone full of knowledge built this house. Walls join like bone to gristle, the foundation is a syllogism of stone. It is private. No lane leads here from the road. Twisted woods keep out visitors on foot. There are no doors and the windows will not yield to any bashing I can muster. I have lived here who knows how long, ever since I met the one who said "Come with me; I will show you something secret and perfect . . ." Old Neighbor