falling into a trance of infinity [a nice car but just another anachronistic american icon of luxurious squallor] isnt that a storm? no, thats a squall � a huge storm that brushes over and past like a broad shouldered man who cant fit through narrow doorways as he breaks the jambs into sharp splinters of fresh pine … that heavenly smell that can cure a cold when you lay in its bed of needles and pins randomly stuck in the cushion on the side of sewing room to breath room to grow room to release the hounds and watch them bay at the silvery moon hanging suspended from a piece of invisible fishing wire in the canopy of space, time, and infinity….
