I'll pay you what I want to owe you, I expect you to give me what I want. Sick of land faith on a mile. Sick of gravity's shee Sunday at noon believing we can't fly. Sheer pink in a thousand summers' eyes frayed edges. Some things can be left without solution.
Snow traces a white outline on the trees.
A book is open on the windowsill, open to the pages with a drawing of bodies falling through history, searching for the light to separate them from the dark. The book is so small compared to the original drawing. Taking it in with one glance, as if it was just a thought, a gesture, it's easy to forget that the bodies fell with such weight and power. If you choose the misconception as a reference, as a guide to understanding, you will reproduce nothing. If you live your life examining misrepresentations you might never notice where the inconsistencies are, the imperfections that allow breathing.