The reader note went, One afternoon while napping one read a confusional book. We are at the dawn of epistemology raising consciousness you can’t get from study alone. A soul wobbles. It does. It vibrates. But something’s missing.

We’re in no hurry.

Snow and sun? We’re expecting something.

Ice or melt, there’s no good time to get it entirely, which is a tragedy.

We mosey back to right about where we want clarity about motives; the construction seems unpinched, slightly giving, giving over to slow-motions for the moody and unexpected.