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I watch the chest of drawers pressing all of its weight upon the floor. There is no more to be said by gravity, there is no ambiguity in the breath that it holds unlike time whose fabric folds and unfurls. Or is it that in the first spinning place a disparity untold grew loud. Or that coldness is the paper upon which rich energy is written. Or that a wildlife conservationist loses sight of his bittern and sighs and so is louder than the sun. The particular, consecutive shapes of bits of gravel wedged by pressure into the treads of a car wheel is less fruitful to contemplate than the dynamism of the sky. A rotating crystalline droplet rotates, levitating spraying rainbows over snow, painting underneath the colour of why a promising glow. Why is frozen. The empty mechanism of question when split open still reveals symmetry, perfect unending. Bending the abstract machine to glean a slice of clarified life, that can t stay won t stay, won t either go away or wither but will quiver in the peripheral vibrating interstitial plane. The negative space of rain. The remains of a capital letter fettered to the first sentence. Dented old used up beginning. The fine tracery of explanation.The famousness of time.