As a collection of trinkets or toys or the imprint of a body pressed into a bed by gravity or the fatigue of songs that refuse to be sung in the middle of an October night, like black cats that refrain from howling at the moon, a false trope or a wishful fabrication or an obvious lie that reveals the obsession of the speaker or the intricate lattice of shadows that disappears when clouds are dense enough to block the sun or the moon or some other source of light imagined in a science fiction novel or a quiet kind of song that was never completed and turned into something other than itself as its composer scrolls through a collection of something other than words or emotions or small bombs that make it impossible to sleep in a bed with a song that refuses to be sung.