we went to the river to study the grammar of our lives, still fresh and burning without smoke nor other aerial complications... nothing but white flammes of uncompleted skinwinds...
we posed not questions in order not to loose the orthogonal instinct of touch and truth...
as those manuscripts of silence flow over the silence... hands promise and fulfill...
again the river erodes the order of causation... first the arrows on the hearts, second the curved force of the bows... third the flight of iron and flesh through one and the same manuscript of fire...
I'll drink it softly till my lips allow of birds... as those origins termed poems within... inventions, the possibility of truth and its affluent pleasures...
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