In The Evening Everything Has A Schedule,

The Facts Of History Have Been Too Well Rehearsed.

The Ellipse Is As Aimless As That, Stretching Invisibly Into The Future So As To Reappear In Our Present. Its Flexing Is Its Account, Return To The Point Of No Return.

All Beauty, Resonance, Integrity, Exist By Deprivation Or Logic Of Strange Position.

We Are Prisoners Of The World's Demented Sink. The Soft Enchantments Of Our Years Of Innocence Are Harvested By Accredited Experience Our Fondest Memories Soon Turn To Poison And Only Oblivion Remains In Season.

Not Until It Starts To Stink Does The Inevitable Happen.