Window beaded, raindrops gnashing silvery white, at core--grey sky in each, each to each a composite of it. Room....an abstract memory scheme, dull blocks of color hanging in there. Afternoon in the middle of itself, January in the beginning of itself. Formative limbo offering both its cheeks, the world entire taking it up on its offer. Head bows ever slowly, a religion of one in the making. Do not doubt there are digestive points strewn throughout days--whereupon one embodies the throes of all creation. Thoughts...come and go with a reflective quality whose tonalities divide and conquer what must be static...for change.