Year of the snake. This is the year of further transcendence. An isolated spectacle hanging in the daybreak fog, meeting earth to the clouds and the middle of grey-beam aqua-pasture is where I store myself. The very sad man dreamt again of the very happy woman whom he would never see and never hold again. It was undeniable they arrived together in another time. It was undeniable she was the most disgusting and beautiful sprite of his musing. They devolved instantaneously into the tragic manifesto. And why not? Why not squeeze the great oceans between their chests in an amassing wave of some armada of lowly downed prisms. Playing colors off the wall or the slummed vacated room. Slipping off into my eyes.