If you didn't tell the doctor then how can we expect our kidneys to be spun into the stone labyrinth we're trapped in – the twin girls take our hands and lead us there – miles away we ate tiny green apples from a smooth wooden bowl on a patio abandoned by the rich – black that is blue in the light – promising is an instinct not unlike the Dutch building dikes to turn the ocean into land – your body misnomers a golden ticket – verisimilitude is awful because the world is awful – wet lace – I run my tongue around the ragged edge of a tin can – a spectre of speech with a golden tooth – a dike trying to keep out what happens when I sleep – [this is where you complete]

You can burn the bad omen but he's already gone. The doe lifts her head from the roadside. The message was in regards to an opening, unspecified. You feel an opening of your own growing from replication. To repeat is to find a way through. A way through is beyond sound. Beyond sound you can pick up where you left off, like nothing ever happened. If you're willing to watch long enough you can trace our orbit around the graveyard and follow the tracks inside, alone. One tombstone says WAIT. I am going to tell you a sad thing, whether you want to listen or not. This traditionally peaceful process suggests safe passage so long as you ignore it, while I don't resist lavishly popping blackheads during the service.