Gracious pores answered with respiration my over-thinking that wasn't convincing at all. I understand. –With you Doubt works from the morning until 11 at night, whereas Certainty doesn't work. Isn't that it? Multitudes: I, you, he, we. So many voices all stampeding through that single screen, the one with constant technical problems belonging to whom I call you.– ...And while being transformed into anacoluthon, the lagoon engulfed the Hyena.

Next step: What of the Hyena?, what of her cackle?, now not even in the darkest dreams admitted. Touch iron and stand pat while the beldame bounds upward abeam of the grackles, into the sunset. Grackles that, according to a sensible Sunday señora cresting at 500 feet, are to be dreaded. And while perhaps reasonable, the lady's misassertion confused me because when mixed amongst them

I am happiness, like a thought or a song rhymed assonantly. But there is still an hour until 11 and General En, your distrust of consonance tempts the mesmerizing limits and ruins of oneself.

Your chérie called you "the captain" and me a mere "sea man". Ink runs the ranks or jumps ship, and she must be the admiral, scribing verses while her memory's vines climb upwards. If we were all One, there'd be no trireme, whose punished sails traditionally stirred more fear in its day, señora, than any murder of grackles.