I taper this next stage with visually inevitable things and select for keen gameness. Today specialists would work among genres and formal, interdisciplinary stubble; I see. Um, ok, yes, ma’am. I’ve misspelled some signs.

I have not fulfilled norms set by stop action. Nothing personal, I cry when it becomes subsequent. I credit everything on the surface without a message. In Throne of Blood — if you’ve seen it, you won’t forget — the tall growth of Cobweb Forest is sawed down to new ends, camouflage for an avenging army on the march. The sad image is threshing fir and pine needles that shield warriors advancing to unseat a despot flummoxed by presentiment.
Ontologically, a wild deed like rewriting a poem is complemented by an autocracy of attitude toward its occasion; deed and ’tude combine as a sawtooth. Standing by and looking on — face it, I’m prone to passive aggression — stunted, I limp off scowling to the dull deforested haze of profuse misses in experience and lightness of touch.