Spiral sheaf of stomata and the mottled crimson flesh of the conifer, inverted in the chamber of an eye as it flickers in a convex stillness. There are many changing trees, many bodies, the whorl and crush of the multiple. Time’s approximation of photosynthesis. There are editions of the self, and many senses, many concepts and the succession of organisms. I produce a singular crescent of reality by using the keyword ‘this.’ Everything else is the noise of a shell pressed to one’s ear. Not all trees, not other movements. The only epistemology is what I sense. There are many hermetic languages, and movements of nebulae. The polyphonic universe and its wardrobe of phantoms and jellies has many ways of bursting hearts and numbers as its only language. Yet my notion of this particular tree depends on a particular blurring. The class consumes the object. Form swallows content. There are many seeds, many lonely lines of code. Objects and trees and moments as fleeting as this. This tree equals tree. This eye equals eye. This moment equals moment. Askew the other, the loud multiple, the world. By thinking I bifurcate, call the datum to its bed, the forest and the eye merge inside this dream.