The becomings lie of_- we wont mention -of what . its cantankerous shite ramming the big and little lie along the lace of your parchment skin, the death of your quill and the start of your frying pen pan.

each day is rain , like the becomigns of night. the fever gives long airs, and sudden .

Then we switch focused on the south. Our harbingers've made mighty snows.

Desire is like a machine, the eye of the swallow is the sand of the swan. its helpful merit preening the riverbed. These merits were won and worn. Down the medal of its passing giver. Not a soldier but a footnote