They are not fixed in the sense that land is fixed, but forever propelled from behind, edges tending to bulge out, improbable as crossed-out sentences. You end up wishing for more excess, not less. The delicately pointed trees are compiled in arrangements not coherent enough to be called scenes, which come off as a failure of nerve. There is the recognition that your experience has already been half-erased just by waking. The world wobbles on its axis of heartbroken tenderness and incomplete gestures.
Birds claws look like twigs.
Their implications are obscure, a skein interrupted by shapes of the sort one usually absorbs, and still one is ever wet enough to run. And you a glistening glue amid a centralized mass composed of thousands of sheets of paper, shrunk into speech, the result being a translucent skin. Nine black chairs of varying sizes are lined up side by side. The smallest chair has a red seat of images scratched directly into the lower levels of the nervous system, and looks like her cupped hands, looks into your memory, frozen. The greatest refusal a refusal to distinguish figure from ground.