Just now, as I post all these meditations on violence, a fox ran in front of my window. When you hear screaming, but can't identify it, what visuals get laden with fear? What visuals get charged with your intuition, horrified at night, that the empire nation is built from exhaustion? All to avoid this thought: When there is violence anywhere, there is violence everywhere. Coursing, lover, they are bombing you. And when you bomb them, you are bombing you. Themyou: tyhoeum is our fabric.

These are trinkets, imperfect metaphors sought to match. Last night I blindfolded myself. It was night. I was on the porch and my eyes were closed. The canopy of wind and leaves lifted higher, which was insignificant. Which happened first, Prometheus, did your eyes go blind or did you have visions? To continue matching imperfections when all the words, and sights, are charged with promotions. I will continue to close my eyes. I will seek these bridge-like permutations.