Intention spoons unconsciousness in an embrace, stroking their lover’s arm on a cool autumn night in Chicago. Do trees or laughter come from human desires? Of porcupines and of amoebas. One knitting needle pressed against the membrane of your lung. Perhaps that lost poem is living a good life in another dimension. We’re curious about side effects when the bottom drops out of the sun. The river’s letter to the satellite, long ligatures that breath the soil’s flesh. We are cyborgs when we fail to act on behalf of love, which is every minute of the last million years. Approximately. The inverted umbrella of causality represents nothing. An impression of the subway where I missed a connection. Of games and of directives. Your abstraction is full of clichés and veridical claims. The sense of transformation. Unclear which door is more dangerous, human fallibility or a ship that does not understand the wind or anything really. Television starts to look like the before times. Does any of this start to seem familiar? This is artificial. This is conventional. A dialogue between a window and a cloud.