her tapping is timorous and her eyes are darting and daring to ask the words to becoming something other than other an index skims return and the momentum is carried into solid places and facts and dates and items of yellow orange brown us me her go out to the fairy land of airy hands and curves without proper sidewalks or ideas morning walks now taken at a night a present never present when the future was the past and the past was the moment when all these dreams were being played and all these empty games were played, in olive drab, in tan, in the head as a path is followed down along the trees or through the snow guided by depression then and obsession now, depression now a blurry cover in a vacant room the air smells like potential as we begin to begin to begin to fall