For Josh Stanley

Screwed to the descenders of the parting edge of this second stamped in anonymous indicators in a flash of pure Greenland ice core, coating tension with its missing surface of relief, who is left continues to feel boasted in the private sector and its figures, where love is boasted, and where the alternative death is unsustainable to now allege, as in the throes of Dalga at the only time of writing, or in a body that is not and never will stop coming, or as in a tactical spiral with no end in viable mind at the front desk of the Federal Reserve, sucked down to the dregs of human root, where at the glowing tips a loop of meaning spiked with sound makes everything need to be perfect to bother existing even once.

All the people you love are there, waiting to surprise you. Some are disguised as the pleasure in tenderness gone, others are averted or agree. The ground is opened up and laid out flat. You ask what now is more or less what sounds no closer than the same, but wishing, waiting, bidding, blind the dream slides down comer spun left face stripped to blur back in in inimitable shadow out the spiral of long term vision, the mental funds to blow reversing fundamental loss, working or not for poverty either way, whose sound is the same as the void it sounds like not the same void ever twice, but once, and always the same once, for people who are once people always once the same, hastening to be disbanded into a random sample of gratinated Javanese, in a sinkhole of broken clavicle someone else's mother, taking care to shift about, in towering swells, on which is wasted nothing but a name to state and void. Under the name is its subordinate pin whose length is in told in hieroglyphics of emerald and code, made to stand for reason best achieved by a robust credit loss impairment model not yet petulantly enough dismantled in the empty bed, that obsession of the homeless, whose other shadow that will no more condescend to trail us gracefully fades: end-users are stubborn but disposable as the penis of chromodoris reticulata.

But what do we make our own way around that for, which for the remaining happiness is only there. I am grateful to live my life even without you. The point of the new is to not outgrow its median viewership by >3%: open the door one sliver more, dust like smoke blows out on the Bamako sprinkler once of no mind, what we all do going forward and backward at once, going forward. Get up, limbic, drift to the sink, complete identity: I want you to be nothing but yourself. But I want it more than you. For what was me is not me yet, and click the turn to lock its eyes. Administration takes you at no word for all of this, but one you stash behind it just in case it is no word. And what if the Spanish reality never returns, but only the fantasy one and the sense it comes back; You lay not moving and you feared you would not move again. You do move. Now you move to everywhere you go. As you do, the spread of your intensity grows incompletely deep, but static love is in you all the same, and one way out.