Something about a peacock. Something about the sentence that composes color out of words. We live on parts of a raft in pieces of history. Nothing can stay together through remembrance. The message was recovered from the nest of a bird. When we read it, we knew that we were moving. The submarine sings of seven kinds of darkness– everything that ever hinged on a reflection. In an anxious repetition of the midnight chain, a promise catches a cloud on its lips. To wait forever. To have external wisdom in the edges of an epigram. We say the vagueness of bones allow for our flesh to be specific. And a bird looks on with strange lust. This is how I was invented. A raft breaks in the tempest of paper. We are forced to count upon the consequence. Until we remember we are only images. Something about the panels that compose the evening. Something about a peacock.