Music, the clumsy concrete of unintelligible sounds bury deep in peach pits. This fruit could be beauty, and the banging upon its soft flanks drags spirit in hand in all directions. But there is no direction, no sound, no flowing freezing mixture poured over the ripening reproductive organs of trees. It's something from nothing. Any slight addition loses its imperfect/perfect balance. Let corn husk bodies fall in fabricated winds and let go of your precious seed. Cut clean.