Something stirring in the terrarium. It rhymes with me but not you. Brink of moss and string. That which cannot be encapsulated, a tiny old wilderness that speaks in another dimension. A gift that is not an anecdote. I would fabricate a rare moon, a simile that associates something abstract with a real thing that can be touched. Like old love and bare skin, things that have phases rather than histories. Things that do not grow in enclosures. Looking in the glass world, there is no outside or inside, only pieces, and angles and the movement of old becoming.