A spring from that declension. Winter in the cryptosphere. The letters in the reeds. What he had seen with his own eyes, rising and falling. The conversation never ends.
Composition is driven by the pistons of our arms and legs, spelled by lines of flight.
The correspondence of the letters of our exchange with the S- curve of the returning. In the living room he dreamt the door to the hallway being methodically removed from its hinges. They are standing outside. They are drunk with the powers of light. Linguum of the world.