By production and proportion of slowness they measure the lack of laughter. Rain skews novelty in its throbbing spreadsheet. Variation can and cannot be predicted. The slow emergence of the cracked bottle, hard to see through. Too much deliberation about meals. Once there was a cinema, there was popcorn coming from death. Cracks in clarity. In the sober slip of the tongue. Remodeling the morning with clarinet practice and hot bubbles of small money in the last promise. Ha ha. So they aspire to build breaths with less ponderous quantities of fiber. The universe of lettuce, of whole wheat. Looking askew the weather’s brain. Old affection hides in the floorboards between woodgrain & sarcasm. Less cares. More ballet. Less overall promising. So the balancing of day & breathing.