In my illusion of minimalism, hammering steel, 
I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. The frayed entity, o  
no, I should say the accretion settled down, humble salve  
soon spread over us both, lost, scattered trying to remember and   
 
Simply put, to understand now where early wounds from speech are  
pronounced, which sort hits or fits, kind friend .... mimesis within nature,  
uppermost.  
How is sorrow possible, otherwise?