The Mirror's Gross Objective

And then it is night and then we begin. And begin. A type of sentence that functions as a flame: lighting the various darks, heating the various colds. Hours pass with poetry and the Lord and the constant inability to differentiate between them. One misses owls when one thinks of owls but otherwise nothing is absent. Going to the front door, pulling aside the curtain to gaze at the parked cars lining both sides of Main Street. We make allowances, conditions, entrance examinations and thus the possibility of failure, our dubious crowning achievement. Those long walks in Worthington are gone forever and my heart is broken. The fox in the far field turns to study us and we see again the fluid loveliness of dying, that perpetual smokeless fire. Dickinson's routines, habits, inclinations, dreams. Driving to the grocery store ashamed because we can only afford discounted items. Our shared goal of helpfulness dissolves utterly in this unexpectedly early winter. Be careful of the ongoing urge to repeat yourself, both in the large and small - small to the point of invisible - patterns. That poor bittern! It is impossible to make clear (let alone refuse) the mirror's gross objective, thus our emphasis on textual intercourse. Not one, not three.