Memories and predictions drain the green sky, then wash back as dust in the corners of hills and rooms and bodies. Another other floats over distance in hollow clouds, unseeming and indistinct, shrouded in naked and lit by lines of sight waiting to be occupied. Positives and negatives are neutral, specific to consequence. Which is to wait and which to thicket among Steps fall. This is not a whole.
Rain climbs the trees and drops through the air again.
The center has a word for the periphery. A window could be a table, the result of devoted devotions. Thought is separate from thought, that is, a glossy horizon. Smoke doesn't come out of the fire, it is alone like the sound of a stick striking the floor or a tear dropping out of only one eye. The future searches for mirage on the horizon in order to rescue the common from the spectacular.