Fizzling paragraph, open the latch. You are cut from the same cloth as granite yet more volatile. I’ve pruned punctuation marks, look at my callus, my rhythm of disfigurement. How can an invocation articulate songs it does not know? Say the classics. Say orisons. But by being, not making noises or lifting mute artifacts. I have ridden to the center of something. A more specific filter might be wrong. Thoughts or acorns. Who knows how and when to crack their husks? Or remain shut. Contain your worlds in that ultramarine hole while I feast on this harvest of marks.