It took him in the early winter already amidst the wailing from within the strange cave of our emotional mind, heart, and all of them burning through its system, a burning color in the mind of the birds and trees, black, unknown, and seemed unlikely, serpentine motors, or even words, lines, if tropisms of an ocean worm would dedicate the names of mirages, the mirror, among others, and finding those unopened bottles from 1968, someone smoking at the airport, old fancies of technical ruminants, cold wind, he thought quite slowly, the Earth + always already + sublime, or even picturesque cast iron stove, Idaho.
