In the marvelous irregular, maybe I love you, or occupy a similar sound scape, subjugated to angelic over crowing exchange of body fluids; a variance built with sweaty burden of brick left behind for the bewildered, informed falsity of the deviation between dirt, beast and ourselves; dummy parchment predicaments, telegraphed to ministers on call, enforced by broadcast nets, acting out of protection acts for lunatic and distraction, from the depraved and corrupted, to the history of furniture sales, erasing all traces other than the weather, throughout the strangle insistence of meaning, beyond diagnostic fascination, deep in the abdomen, rock salt lost on the rails, perhaps a hinge misfortunate of another other hand that touches combined language for nourishment, all hangs, subjective and varible.