What if all these books never gave me anything like what she gave me? And what if the monuments we build or the corpses we can still dig up from the soil don’t teach us anything? And what if creating more of us doesn’t give us anything more? The path up the hill leads to the windmill but walking it does’t lead us anywhere. The order we put here is so we do not lose our way. Apparent is a magic trick, in the tentshow the only role I play is the digger of my own disorder, without precedent or soul, the father of my own entropic son. What if like a bullet from a jealous gun we become dogmeat in a crime of passion? In white sheets against the riverbanks in a gurney that’s unfit to carry. Two create riverrun flows of crimson and the third is lodged inside the spine. To be casketed like wine in unforgiving and eroding soil. Never ending always ending floating away potent and dissolving.