I've spent my life in a lone mechanical whine, this combustion far off. How fathomless to be embedded in glacial ice, what piece of self hiding there. I am not sure about meaning but understand the wave. No more Novalis out loud. No Juan de la Cruz singing "I do not die to die." No solstice, midhaven, midi, nor twilight. No isn't it amazing, no none of that. To crow, to crown, to cry, to crumble. The trees the air warms into a bright something a bluish nothing into clicks and pops bursts and percussive runs. I come with my asymmetries, my untutored imagination. Heathenish, my homespun vision sponsored by the winter sky. Then someone said nether, someone whirr. And if I say the words will you know them? Is there world? Are they still calling it that?