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