The rain is a film of cozy glyphs and yet for shelter drawn across the words like curtains. If you pay too much attention to penmanship your ideas can't jump ship. What lets go wavers and when to writing not to examine itself but to waive one's right to what is there before. The loops of legacy. It's too easy to talk about anything. There's an infinite string of determinations, seas combed by waves. Sometimes the arbitrary leaps and that's when intention comes out to play, getting a head of itself as if it could pass time on the soldier. For the time being you are getting warmer. Your mind is at its own disposal. The properties of things lurk like histories. They cling to the air and rein in the exactitudes. In an old Dutch painting milk is being poured. In time. Eyes open slopes of syncope to connect the asterisks. No longer knowing at night, along the jittery edge of the horizon, the roots of desire shake loose of earth. The base code repeats itself and in so doing justifies variation.