A forgotten pearl in a darkened mailbox concentrates on becoming a robin’s egg, waiting and knowing that the door will open soon. Small rocks in a water-pool, the reflection they are creating. Miscellaneous means misunderstood. Every chance to describe a similarity turns toward time, and difference dissects its meaning in ignorance of the sea. The eyeball, ridiculous, the periscope, sublime. Who wants a buried machine or an underused heart? To cover one eye: origin, separation, or departure. This detaching starts the ghosts to talk of art and libraries, a flashlight lost in the architecture. Depth is everywhere to be dived into, drunk and diminished. Casting the self, like a slippery net, over the boat’s edge to collect the illuminated junk of a glass personality. No umbrella can keep it from getting wet. I think about the limit of deep liquid light, fluorescent gas of a Rothko print to be inhaled by an angel and a squid, languorously in currents, shade-bloom of firmament. Being inside of the whale’s belly, and fraught with fragrant shame, with all the history of worms, and contradiction and eyeless faith. An abstract thought falls in the whirlpool created by its own terms. Who wants a robin’s egg or an underused heart? Composition, diary and improvisation to fade away in the woods. A submarine. A means to an art. A clandestine emotion in the fathom of a day.