I want to say something. When I speak slowly, the sounds which emmit spark darkly, or vaugely. A prosperous tone, a soliloquy transfigures a measurement of breadth, and the spaceless, formless matter (or energy) begins a motion. In times, or timed, the timed figure (an ingenious method) relaxes... How? I thought for a moment my argument had retired to the wood shed out back for profuse puttering. But in a day, nay an hour, the spoken forms shelter for whatever may be at the moment. And I confess, with all this- the warm hearth and full belly not so by sweat and toil- it may only be an elastic, spiritless cough, a treadmill for a sneezing gerbil.