Broomsticks remember being branches, either yearning or not, either brooding, or dizzy with domestic dances, with memory and handfuls of ghostly breathing. Not to feel the bite of an axe, or the quaint habit of personification– but to act as the steadfast index of the importance and centrality of one point. Movement might seem to have ideas, perhaps, as reflection interprets in the street, and the only rhythm of a mirror is reversal, to think of one thing in another semblance. Little to think of anything like weather. Or sitting still inside a theater, where everyone attempts to be careful, or believe. How accidents never fail. Not so with fiction. It lives by failing. When it becomes impossible to open books, when movement has no sound to it–– when it becomes possible to be semblance, this is how to tell time from space in the imperfect interpretation of one point.