Conduit

of behavior, of folding pages, of drifting emergencies and wood chips. In the window a carved ship complete with articulated rigging monitors the imagination of a shelf and all its descendants. You may ask if this is correct, if your sharing my anxieties is infinite. Should I call or not? Here you worship the chance light through a drifting ship. I can call but it is futile. Whatever I say is a trap of meaning. I am drowning in wood. Outside an electrical storm has risen from nothing. I contemplate nothing until I am submerged again, reaching to a passing ship. The pages crease. They are made of wood. The machinery runs. Power consumes the remission of sloth.