Now that I have not died, you can think about a glassy system of roads. I can move through fragrant sand in time’s revolving hips and nodes. This arrangement can be annulled, you can dance with statues or hills and I may laugh. This would be cold contact between sashes and window sills. If someone asks, was there another way, I can tell them that it depends. There need not be any ribbons or clay, afternoon cement or elastic bands. This, not this, is about being between thought balloons in a winter sketch of a snow-boat. Everything unseen can be arranged by moving in swing sets. And vagrancy can be understood as a kind of momentary distraction from death, until you spoil the mood by making strange faces. I fraction yesterday against the revolving ground. I can tell them it depends on fluidity and stickiness. If you make a sound between static balloons, it would have validity. This, not this, is about lightening texture in tree bark of road maps in brain waves. If someone asks how they can be sure what it means, you can show them the graves.