It comes from nowhere, but lands now. It builds itself into stars and hiccups, slipping. Shine lands on foundation, as it calls and disappears timely. The plain of pattern stains tattoos onto film. Flatulence’ don’t exist, the grey-zone we believe. It rams into the animal in front and welds all pell-mell into the mohel. It never actually sings.
In the spire of will, we want wafflery with it, neat squares to glisten and mine – digging deep in order to shine, the ton of milling and shavings pour down until still. The difference is nil, ton and void, since the arch flows up again then down. It is always a matter of shine, and much of a heart. We need both to be one, to be two together and still. It is always laundry in the wind, and it's bugs in the sand.
image: Dog, Sea, Wife - more cairns at: https://www.doronoll.com/noll-cairns