I really wasn’t going to say anything about this, but when I took the words out and spread them under the sun today, they disintegrated. Just like that. I was watching close to see if they were forming a message, and I think I was coaxing too hard. I keep telling myself not to be pushy. This feels like a tragedy, like the loss of a signpost. Perhaps the words were too fragile for the aboveground.

The girl and I are getting started on the staircase. I thought up half the plans, quickly, and wrote them in a small sonnet. The girl wrote the other half. She’s gone to get wood, Sturdy wood! I told her, something beautiful like bird’s eye maple, or better yet, quarter-sawn oak. I want the staircase to last forever.
While I wait for the wood to arrive, I carve niches out of the tunnel to accommodate secret passages. I’m completely taken with this idea, and I can hardly wait to make everything fit.

I’m shaky with excitement. First there’s the tunnel, and that’s great. Then, a spiral staircase, and that’s even better. But putting in secret passageways is almost too much excitement. I’m thinking we’ll be able to course the staircase as part of our journey, and spring out at each other from hidden spots. Tunnels within tunnels. That should keep us on our toes.
This is Day Twelve.