In my illusion of minimalist guts, hammering steel,  
I scored a first wormhole on schedule, a hell of time. The frayed entity, o   
neh, I should say the accretion settled down, humble salve   
soon spreading over us, losing out touch, scattered trying to remember and      
 
Simply put, to remember where early wounds from speech are   
pronounced, which wait inside, which sorts hit or fit our doing....  
mimesis within nature,   
uppermost.   
How is sorrow possible, otherwise?