There are strings. Nine strings? No, nine of some-wheres,
plus one black when. Back then, they weren't strummed, but they're
vibrating from, or to something. Something flat. Real is flat. Real and
flatter than. The fattest lie is the fastest why I can come up with. I can
tell you: I've lived this sigh before. Not a sigh, so much. As a breath
between, death's hidden in the greens, and life. Life's again. Then's death.