We find you strumming a mandolin in the great hall, playing gentle music for all, whether blow-in or of good stead picking out solid notes from years of when the earth stood still, holding up to send them rush over the rest of the house, a gust over barley, a ghost of friends bonded over cows, and their wives, now both dead, long ago, those notes washed these halls, their walls draped in penmanship of the greeks, in great elk, and a thread of the grace that playing children allows.