For a node so loved its shell, that it gave its only begotten process: An imagination delimited by a smaller version of its own failures and lost opportunities. Alchemy delivers its portion of the dream, the history of metallurgy and homunculi. A once secret way of causing failures, giving imaginary birth to real monsters. Goblins and other wrinkled self-portraits, such as fallen leaves and newborn humans. Poems that write code about mutation, about being something impossible to love. A conjugated verb has its own arguments, arrows and dashes and ciphers and space. Quotation marks hanging from the doorway, framing sheet music with ferns and darkness. For the language of a monstrous whisper, that becomes something other than life. This fortune casts its wishful numbers, the framing of a delicate action. Spawning an unfinished conception, the breathing of a crimson draft. Nothing stays its double meaning, resigning the ambition of a signature. For the sake of creating secret rivers, that daydream of oceans of coherence. This child process of new creation, this monster reading novels in the dark.