With the gray light cast on my stillness, I am permitted to wait. Clouds eat my angular agency, wooden is barren – oh, beware. Eyeball eats sky also – which I is ceiling to be and what for. There are no angles, world is something contained. Specks keep still the self. A forecast block. The me inside the inanimate’s longing. Bird scissors through cutting line across eggeye. Blue gap’s squeals through cloud machinery’s blip of conscience. Day’s weight the gift of sound. Not fog nor foregoance but rather vehicle’s achy groans before the halt.

Please, evil airplane stuck in the cloud, allow this stillness to echo throughout the frame.