While the revolution slept, unboiled poems and the troubadours wander the night city. Late historical forms, so I gather. Velvet branches of economic life and culture. Newspaper omits the radar’s story. Our happiness in error and simplicity ruins the quality of echoes – their diachronic flute. Equivalent to the sky’s inner variation. But luckily, whalebone, propriety, grace. A telegram of flesh, a shuffling of statistics, elements, and sentiment. So, it wakes and rises, full of noise and sadness.