The needles had begun to warm against his skin, trails of moxibustion rising in the cloistered air like a veil of mulberry silk. Through the pungent smoke, he could see the purged energies of his body, scenes of his life playing out as they broke apart against the ceiling and vanished in shadow. “Iris,” he said, watching the smoke curl into closing fingers, as if to mimic the world in its sleep. He watched it flow into curves, a face lost in dreams, a delicate mouth half-opened as it whispered some truth he could no longer hear. This had been