The frozen lake—a void—for which I initial an absence. The unsound of an open, that there is duration in the space around. I drill a wonder down to the under sounds & open. A hook can only service from the release, for catch, yet remains awaiting an unknown, the whole of the not yet known. How I familiar? How infinite the space between a hook's reach & the tension of the thin line my gloved hands keep & when finely wrapped find, light in the lowering. If, in an unsound, I answer with sound, is the place, question, mature? The center of a lake in that at once outside I am. I will stay, have found something but did not find. If I leave the icehouse the hook encounters, an error.