The universe dips its wing in a bathtub of beginnings. Each layer compares itself to other layers. Often they inflate into bubbles, the iridescent plasticity of the time sequence. If I was not naked, I would ride the stream of missed opportunities to the horizon where they gather strength. I would compose the signature of something more than a failure. More than a surface coerced into a form of its ruin. If we are submerged in one another’s forgetfulness, we must swim. A delicate incarnation often misses its lines. What does the detail matter to the core? Integrity of structure depends on the lack of holes. How does beauty relate to fragility? We understand finitude to the degree that we understand our language and topology. In other words, not at all. Swimming in unconsciousness, we look to the shore.