My fingertips got cold, searching for messages from my father in the abandoned aircraft hangars and munitions factories of a post-human landscape. The snow was old and dirty like unread manuscripts. I liked the church bells ringing in a sunny December morning. I tucked a poem into a ruined hymnal. Who knows if it will ever be seen again? I felt a small patch of warmth and peace, sitting alone with stained-glass light shining on my face.