The web of syntax fastens but does not fascinate, empty aria of here to there without the concrete context of content. I extend my fingerling claw to a thread.... "Filament, filament, filament," just like the old so-and-so's bag of beard threading the elements whisper-slipped from his brain-sac. The cotton candy pinks my mouth with glue. Why dot an I unless all connects to all, we know not how? Lying down together I say to you what you say to me until we hear it. A vivifying sample suspended clear in a petri dish twists forth its tentacular longing like a potato eye bursting to see.