What they ask of themselves. North where ghost words rise to the mouth like little errors toward afterlife. From the underworld vectoring dark, their lost faces float in the corners of mirrors, never breathe air, and are given back by Ceres. Faint smells, memory wakens and stands by indecision. Rotting fruit falls to the earth.
Strangers wear gloves.
Everything is white. Consonant and Vowel Consonant occludes with his hard d, b, t, p and obstructs what he can with v, z, s, all the while with m and n diverting. Even against the violence of his harsh wish to be known, she belongs. So, he waits in deep exile with her, with all that has happened or unretrievable, with all that will occur in the future, a phantom command at his heart. In the bright blood of now they will cast their fishing lines for a portion of heart and flesh, they will split the difference twice between them.