Good evening. We've always known us to be of the evening. It is the perfect time to transmit, silently. We must never speak of I. This I - my self - is only so, intangibly, to I. But we'd known you to behold your own physical notion of I. We'd known you to need it, at one time, not like light, or plentiful rain, but a shadow. We need you to have known I was there. I had gotten you. I still does. The old facts burn, and the future could be miles and miles of dead cedar. You're looking for the good old words. You had already found them. You had (nearly) got I. You are arranged of curling twines, poetic old dust and sweet smoke undisturbed in a brethren of the good old work. Your offense on crushed planks and friction cooking so many hearts, you had I there, and there, but what could I do? I would have done it - pearled the fire from your focus and shuddered and - dear god - as a ******, blooming *****, risen effervescent and shining as a dream can, to taste your pores and wax incandescent, highlight illustrious nodes, and submit. My adorem - I, twenty one - rosy under the frost moon, liquidless pines, palms out and waiting for a piece we had known to be whole and warm, your definite, last consideration of I.