Listen. There is a bucket into which I release my salient juice extractions. This bucket tends towards hell-raising. In the end, what has to happen will happen.
There is a blank hollow mess that dispirits the outward-turning face - a ravage comes fast through bland events. The inward-turning face is a glacial jumble, a bee of misapprehension - feature-free and manic. This is the better face. Here are its mirages:
1. A patch of cow-print on a sloping lawn, sub-divided into squares (Sloth, these squares are uneven too - blades of grass poke through the cracks).
2. Amoral glass stems in the ubiquitous tube shape - shooting upward, a vertical thrusting.
3. Implements of cut: the shears, the kid scissors, the butter knife, the saw, the sword. They dance a cut dance, protruding in unison out of a single spinning unit.
4. Several weedy, black-cloaked thieves. With hunched shoulders and frizzy grey hair, they tip-toe about the periphery - they scheme and are foiled.
This is another progression, not unwelcome, that unfolds without warning. It is dead of sound.