Titillating boundaries are met in the trash-sea of the mundane – and surrendered, not caring which grass root is to be held accountable and which tip-of-the-blade-of-the-bittiest-slice-of-green is to be pushed in the corner of cause and effect.
The reckoning of what-follows-which; it is to be conducted the same way the bards of old chose their words and threw them on bits of parchment to take seed; then vapours of physical law – bound to follow form – unshackled themselves from potency.
The purity of the parchment is not in question; but the bulbous fallout of pompous effect is.
Actuality is the premonition of this groundswell, the answer to the sky beckoning earth to show up for work, and it is the transient play of shadows that misses the mark and catches the trail-of-the-shadow-of-the-mark.
You cannot in all earnestness expect night to wilfully look the other way.