Moderately sized squares with properly scaled rectangles–doorways without thresholds which dictate the perimeter of the common area.

Far from the Rhodesian vale whose fertility depends on an infrequent rain.

Amidst sheets of paper with thicknesses no greater than .097 mm–colloquies bound for an eye to read pile themselves upon each other and wait for the tips of his fingers to smooth and carry them across the room.

There are streams which only last for minutes that cut landscapes and take lives. They rush past the satiated promise of family cloaked in ambivalence. And, then, sink into the soil which once supported them.

As a boy, he would sit at the corner of his father’s driveway. There was often little else during those moments save the sounds of neighbors coming home from work and of the various sprinkler systems which would activate just as the sun began to disappear beneath the horizon. Once, before the moths and mosquitoes, he watched a hawthorn blossom glide on the warm currents of air which rose from the top of the asphalt; falling and rising yet always parallel to the ground: That, he remembers having thought, is what I’ll be when I grow up.