This is a quiet time of reinvention, old lies in a teacup, despair for cream and lead for balance. It is a short time, the unimagined descent of marbles down a balustrade, slowing for grains of silt and swans lost in the teashed.
We danced in a coil of iron graces, softened by chords of ricepaper and salted lips. We sang with the fire of discovery, the imperfect effluvia of words settled by the entropy of touch. Limbs relinquish each other to the everchanging wind, stir crossings until the fall.