And it came about that the confessors were no longer to be seen in the land. It is the king, said some. He has murdered all the confessors. To bury his secrets. It is not the king, said others, but the weather and its changes. Some argued that the confessors were extinct or had never really existed beyond a handful of crazed individuals. One suggested that they were merely hiding out. And as the sun sank into the lower third of the prussian blue sky, and as the doves gathered on the rooftops and wires, we went our separate ways to confess to cast iron balconies, trees, mahogany bedposts, newsprint, and to ice cubes in empty cups, to confess that we had forgotten our confessions. And in the gentle night, we would dream of all the returning confessors, their round heads as radiant as the faces in a child’s drawing, confessors made of dark crayons, shadows, starlight, and migrant birds.