The wind blows and the room, despite it, remains warm. Warm where details float and lose edges to the sounds of the trees as they shake and bring rattles across time’s snake and drain pipe drip the season’s incense into the beauty of space governed by neighboring properties and rectangular axioms hinging differences upon a well-fed doorframe, the type that keeps society close to skin, personal as the lips of people, proper as windows curtained when clutching the privacy of a dinner plate. Where within cracks of cornered walls of a psyche a blacksmith hammers shoes, building laces from donkey hair, and daydreaming about the weave that could spontaneously turn golden if only to encounter the right proposition by the right employer. However small these nooks are, seldom do they exteriorize, and for the neophyte all remains paralyzed, isolated in the floor-boards of exteriorized proportions of arm-hair—for a single forest to eject from the confinements of a torrential rain would require many hours of being alone; a knife blade serrating loneliness of the wick of a candle. Maximizing pressure and reducing leakage, the identified stacks of smoke merged walls hallway a highway to silence, where the human baby sleeps dragons and trolls cannot verbalize mathematics to a valued position of chairs. The register rings, and it’s obvious what falls into what slot. Paper can never absorb all the statues completely, some of the builders of the pyramids must cohere where shades of a lack-to-endorse margin musters its colonies of seeing, so that people can stay within the measure of a balancing scale. These invisible dragonflies hover at sites undisclosed to the morality of ATM significance and exchange eye colors because it maintains the paradigm of their spinal-spheres keeping them spiraling around a forgotten middle.