We have now become this bleached wall exposed to graffiti; you and I, lost in a vector dwindling somewhere between flight and ground-woven footing. Like only such delicate secret opens to tongued up and thighed upon space – only nightscapes the air dares elope with, but isn’t that what absence hands over, a roughed up winding moonlight suspended in crunched ether, or something else that bade sibilance of speech rammed in preterit? A blossoming descends in Maytime, besmirched with dreams collapsing on obelisks. The moment in which I thought you to be devouring space, nurturing a whelm of heat squalled and intent, fanning a spleen of intimation, riveting a conflagration. Else it was before, sulking in the finagling quiet: truths hauled out and carved to foists, much room it was to differ a voice and fragment message, staring at this world the first time and the last – all at once in that rampaging instance, the rest of the world pinned down before me.