An Irish Franciscan dying of the plague in 1349 faces the blank page. It's his hope, will, and testament.
The undone did him, and does us, in. We begin but cannot end. Imagine an unfinished book as marine, alive, afloat within, not on the surface of, history. See us in the empty pages, the transparent membranes, the black embrace of the mother water. We permit ourselves to wonder. How will it end?