the decorum is about to bobble. hold on, she says, teeth clenched and chattering. the veneer of thrust is behind us now. he is a strange sort of confidence, shredding the given sun. diorama. your clavicle turns like a harpsichord, finding its key. playing shadows. come here. you are about to lose your ribbon, nobody said. to me. you are about to be lost. nobody. said nobody, all of them alive with red poesies. hyacinths. cats curling like yellow fog in our guttural speech. bauble. all of us bobbling. take it down from there, little thing. it has been too long. thread. aviation. soon the weaving. soon the weaving will be done.