To break the scissor, snip it in half, and chuck both sides away; both sides become a river, snaking round the collar bone of immediate earth. Where do her breasts dangle? But in the necklace of a reflection and the headless dead who wander in the name of their reactive-sparking chatter. Flames of a type of flame eject rapidly eye blinking mountains out of the service of ear pounding circus performers, drums clothed in human skin, but this is not barbaric, the death-penalty, no, flames burn in all direction regardless of scenery, yet a simple extension of a palm—why? Perhaps for the obvious, beneath thread-line of what isn’t seen, there is a pulse, a pulse, in the one within the one who can read, simply there, as it crosses on and through—to provide water a source through a tunnel, wild-fires in north west corner, sex-trade. The work we sign up to belong to, the song which isn’t a choice, and a commitment towards unfolding our tongues. What collapse of synapse does the immediate moment wire into, keeping the world held by Atlas, as to what direct instrumentation are hands applying, are there kids involved, are there villages to see?