Always we walked in the whole awful everything of it, teeming with incessant joy. What do we know of patterns and paper? What do we see of the difficulty of awe? What will this time say? Arms, legs, teeth all locked. Words all locked. So and yet and still returning. Pensive and late and blister and rot. Distracted, it also says what you’ll need. So practical, but only one view. What is left is change. Buried in layers. Still and all returning, but reaching towards what seems like also.