The rust on the clock and the structure of chalk-boards used to animate a polytheism of the sand-box. There is no democracy in playfulness. Everything accords imitation and ecstasy. All the same in ink and in rocks. The playful disease trickles and dances tic-tac-toe transmission of movement; all in a line break. The subject weeps in equations because art will never know odd from even. Happiness is nothing if not a mistake. Mixing mimicry and forgetfulness in a game of carnival timing, to the plunge and rise of a ribbon in a reciprocal embrace. All the same, a chain of fingers to a thing always undone. With an unknown shuffle and imagination to ignore rules and laws of automatic grids and scientific dog tricks, skipping to capricious rhythms, signifying all the more in whimsy, the letter may tickle what it depicts. A crooked line grins in language of hopscotch. Ought we to ignore the old bells of elaborate despair in contagious transformation? Another notch, another spinning, all the same fade in the air.