[1] Random letters rarely produce words that make sense. Neurons cut through the vapor, “no, go away.” Stormy sessions drip past the levees, “if we bury it, they can’t find it, deeper into the forest, run, we need to run.” A child looks and recognizes, “it makes me feel better, you don’t know, it’s good here, get your eyes out.”  But in time, mindless chance forms letters into the form of meaningful words, leaving spaces between. Electric organs buried, reverberating, never waking up, “we could be here, but I need you out, tell the omens to arrive and they will, stay.” The soul of the system is enough to be solitude: put it to the test. Lets lay out a situation of how those gaps form: you already know: two more gaps form when one is filled. I would not call it the study of classics or deportation, sitting in the cypress trees the earth tilts back and while thin branches split down in front of your eyes you never see the sun and it already knows, but it still makes you hope for space between the leaves. That’s right, air dies in the cypresses. And you have no news of the world but what wonder sweats back into, you can’t forget, the light dismantles, no one fears evening. I told her once that there was a blue jay in the cypress outside her window: the garden the pale trappings of a moving earth, sliding back, back into the branches cluttered around memories, waiting without despair. They have feathers, she said. I could stop here. I got in a car wreak on the way home, the road a point singularity: gravity, time, heart: two words: to roam: you already know, but not now:  “epo’ come have your dinner, you know the ponies will take it if you don’t. Look at the farm in this light, I have to keep my thoughts away from the window, the house will be built soon, they should see it, but it’s so much better here. The hives should have at least 500 pounds this summer, a good harvest will get us the money, epo’. The tides break against Puako tomorrow: northwestern face. Beautiful morning to surf: 6 am before the market.” Which line will be longer? Infinite mass or infinite density a heart stagnant against the sheer force of inertia: if you send a point of light into it, nothing remains—“I swear to you, son, I swear against all that has come in with us this time, and I swear to my love, to the farthest planet and back, that If you violate your pact with gravity, I had to, I had nothing left, I knew how it would end and I tried anyway, I swear to you, if you do it, if you let yourself float into it, we will be together, and for that I will never be able to forgive myself.” I woke up the terror of an earthquake: it does not get out, though it sometimes feels like an invisible doctor tracing lines on my chest: beating weakly against the sheets, but I have a picture frame, and from that I know I have to be alone to sweep the horizons.