I usually snooze after a bonfire of love, not one note of cynicism vis à vis whom I adopt. It’s better after I begin to wake I’ve landed. A roundhouse in the sun is great. I merge at the top, asleep... Moreover, I landed. A roundhouse in the sun... I said. The left knee just there when it took a variant position with scratches — an honest hermaphroditic itch countermanded in ambiguity until it goes away — released at last into newly impartial states, witless after a while still asleep. But not dead.