And the quiet and thin air torn not unlike rags are torn from sober certainty under the ribs of death, torn, from curses and demons, torn from the memory of ancient tongues and storied weariness just below what will become (you have seen this) dissolved in forfeit of who should should release the dim half-sold half-told come sweeping by the windows’ bold, photons half-sullen cuttting through like some ecstasies only live in deserts and in waves. Fold your hands. Wait. Be patient. Begging at the gates of beautiful. It will find you. It’s never easy. It’s in a category all by. Itself.