Hours, in the world, prayer, a somewhat time, writing this autumn night, layer of resin (perhaps honey), a deep blue, to-write, to not-write, an angel lands (the wet grass, the blue music). What will happen to the animals and plants, will they, have they, heard your question. No, they would have fled. Can we crawl to heaven. How is love, then. Night rain, rain from a starry sky.

I'm writing to stay, on the couch. You have gone. Leave, I was going to say. There was leaving. Soft footsteps, going, going, and softness left, here, and pale, the first bird song spreading air: morning. Someone tells a story. They begin: oh, Samuel. It is night, once again. And you come, upon. And the single letter, a. It forgoes one, time. It is this time, the gone-time, that figure grieves upon. As, at the instance of your question, holding my breath, I gave up, once (and ever more). The cast of calling, of coming and going, of talking, no, it's just a sky. A dawn, sadly.

You asked too much. What. Did. You. Write. About. Marguerite. Horror creeps slowly. She is as she's always been. A real person, with red dress. Clouds, as it is winter now. It is just as it is, can't make something of something. Nowhere to go. Can you imagine a wooden house. All the trees, all the ferns, all the grass. Can you imagine an inland sea. Lament without lament.

A woman told us about old rooms under the sand, below our feet. We looked at her, and looked at the ships.

Days pass. Weeks, months, years.

A bird.

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