. . . . . THE SINGERS CHANGE, THE MUSIC GOES ON No one really dies in the myths. No world is lost in the stories. Everything is lost in the retelling, in being wondered at. We grow up and grow old in our land of grass and blood moons, birth and goneness. A place of absolutes. Of returning. We live our myth in the recurrence, pretending we will return another day. Like the morning coming every morning. The truth is we come back as a choir. Otherwise Eurydice would be forever in the dark. Our singing brings her back. Our dying keeps her alive. —l.g.