Some say the outline of fate follows its finches by committing blunders. Misfortune develops in negation of phantasy and builds its ironic castle in the skull. X-ray machines orient themselves toward the constellations. Dynamite and forgetfulness are not lovers but animals. The runes drink whiskey until everything starts to connect and collapse. The evening tea we drank from crooked shells brewed from lassitude, ceasing to move in meaningful communication, ceasing to believe. The future has strayed – I shall either die or be confounded, shall either skip or see light, shall either go on or be swept away by wind. But the impotent clichés and incondite platitudes of a wheezing universal automation only seem to snuff and damper the imagination. That old celestial wheel and its inevitable prediction of the Coriolis effect in a porcelain basin. The evening tea we drank from crooked shells, and the stray ambiguous reflection of the sky.