In the warm of my westernness I had almost begun thinking about not adjourning for the day because the night winds rattle the windows and from the inside it makes the dark seem less obscure. What I would like to extract from this universal is some particular insight that will both spread out and subtract from its resistant stain. The white ink of thinking at its own momentum. In a treehouse shut off from heaps of language. In a skeleton of cigarette ash. Fields of consciousness remember themselves as links in a silvery, systemic chaos. Overprintings leapfrog cocoons. When we ask too quickly what it means we forget to think. There are slivers under the nails of each coffin. It ditches me. In reading there is a need to reinforce the struts of meaning with piano wire. We point out the things we have stumbled upon, manufacture meaning out of caressing obstacles. In the weave of coming down to candles unlit though mightily perfumed. The blends of these itches drawn from scratch. If it really were the farthest thing from your mind it might remain there. A pageant of memory embossed with the logo of its own detachment. Fixed meanings unmoor and scour the night on winds of semantic torpor. Big words split like peapods. The sound immures itself within a glossary.