C.V.: I’ve misspelled a sign celebrating raven yawns in fair use praxis, and there’s the old age hand hath put connection to an eyesore we dreamed up or could dream up, borrowing a face beauty slandered. Inside, little agency, no intervention, only stripes of ideas multiplying nameless, profane, increasing inventory, keeping faith from their esteemed orientation, mining their richest veins, designing solid, stoic codes that trigger stern satisfaction dusk thru midday, they think: so many infolding explosive arcs of competing constructs up they flare into neat blocks of aqueous shimmer! Blocks we’ve been party to after lunch. 
Hitherto ethos susses southpaw disproportionality, so lovers per lifetime meet their others halfway, borrowing a face, slanting the blurred promise we had or we don’t know we had after hours, letting it die down.