Once Silence came from the Woods of Future and sat down and began to talk and so on. It was his heart in the words . . . An edge on the silence that it might be heard . . . The most puerile excuse for juvenile ardor, ask your sister. No thing not so much in words, the old joke, nor in the world as well.
Motion is the grammar of forms, of which death is answer.
Declensions of color, shape, and movement. Tree and sky for calibration, the entrance and exit of the phenomenal almost simultaneous, not quite, a recognition of the nameless in the named, of such is body. The mint on the pillow is for when the animal sacrifices are over and you're trying not to smoke.