It's surface is darkest as it shrinks into an endpoint
with no recess but the last fold.

See, I've no way to confirm that which you see,
and you may say the same about my acoustics of memory.

I've already embarked into my curvilinear home, perhaps
hoping to find there a material of permanent memory,
gone to sleep within a Fibonaccian trace.

Always preferring to follow the pink of a surface
till it's impossible to see.
You might not think it a good thing,
but I quietly must disagree.

Begin by touch: smallness is all
For the world is hungry passively,
wanting so bad to oxidize
the interior of us.