No mahogany gesture. Negate everything but the amplified rhythm of feet on an electric stage. Slow moves twist inside quick ones, torquing their way to the audible. Dumping estimates outside the border. The tenant cries about rich increase.
Corn grows into the soil searching for aquifers.
We are dumb as bells. To explain would be to enter a winding path carrying only bread crumbs, and the birds singing. Bare feet tapping a rhythm into a hidden microphone. We would be thickly stuck in our smallest world of senses if not for the incursions that send us where blood drips in the spirit and words gently careen in open space. After entering the second, deeper woods he obsessively asked if we were lost.