I read in an ancient treatise on astronomy that 50,000 years ago, the seven stars of the Great Bear lined up to form a true cross, more accurate and even more beautiful than the Southern Cross. The chapter on The Dislocation of the Heaven reminded me of an image I had in my archives: an image of a graveyard, where a cross had changed places, leaving a white imprint, a mirror that was not a mirror. The cross was still there and at the same time it was only a memory. Beneath our eyelids, we all have skies that break up, in them is what we were and what we are, the movement of our own stars in a time that is intimately ours hidden just on the other side of this bark made of skin. The memory of the time.