On the closing date, only a scent. No contrivance or Schubertian opposition feels like glistening bouclé heating under pressure. Our roles are to fill this in, lengthening Schubert’s insipid menace while coddling the wetlands. I call this a sex drive / minus attrition.

The wetlands work it through. Words we had and didn’t have consequences. But not if there’s a chance. Seismic shifts are unseen and as unspeakable as libido constituting a knowledge module, aimlessly blowing in news of constant unitary joy...