Oh Tollund man, you may look like a half chewed old flip flop, but I feel your passion, like we are brothers. Looking at you mummified in dirt, I sink down to where time muddies. But why have you come back only to say so little? Perhaps I cannot hear you, and we today are too green to know what you have already forgotten, the felled language of the trees. My ears like yours are full of peat. But I don’t want to reduce you to type or a time: primitive or ancient. Every heart, yours included, is autographic. So I’ll improvise, keeping a vehement rhythm like Milford Graves as I dig you. Recovering your time today is like searching for pure water in mud.