I can fathom the anchor, the postman's nervous hands. Receipt of your letter: negative. Question 1. Do you desire to read into it? Fathom. The phoenix bursts, now, becoming
something unique. Does this pique the interest? Does this pique the nipple of your organized still life? Raised carpet, chandelier. I persevere amidst molasses smoke, eye
peels as an orange, lashes to the sink. Do you want a drink? Your shadowbox?