One Hundred Seven

On Kampa the ticket says one hundred seven — Museum and Werich villa for the day she would have turned.

Doors hold open until twenty. Morning clear at eighteen, climbing toward thirty-one; sunset still nineteen thirty-three.

Kupka upstairs. Letters between Meda and Adriena. Ordinary things in the stable this afternoon.

She founded the mills. The mills keep the hour. The stub keeps the count.