Process of bundling, thistles or possibilities or bushels of herbs. Smaller than a weeping willow. How should one measure the differences between each version of the morning? Or suffer the variation between a thing and its implications? Something begins to open faster now, like a teardrop at night. In theory, string could wrap us in connections, but the senses fabricate an excuse. Now I’m trying to open the window, but it has been painted shut and there is no window. Not so much a pillow or a verb but a way of transforming myself into something else. Until the stuffing comes out, a corkscrew of cotton blobs.