The cold told a tale to the life-salubrious sleep; being overturned, subsided under the advance of the all-talking, all-wanting, all-taking, all-spiteful judges of hell. The self-imposed release of darkly spawned legions from wintry warm prime-time self-imposed unconsciousness. Now rushing forth into fields of highness and Rock. Aflame, creek and forest placed under their blazing glare.
Did I walk in any wise toward you, or was I to look directly at you, intently, precisely away? Oh oh quite so how, my acts being perfect yours when not mine being not imperfect, instead perfectly incorrect. So unprintable? Can we not see they are not us and manifestly us? How if one approached your undisembodied person, jaws agape, THUSQUICKLY? Adding sharpness to their quickly, with your freedom throatly-bound? How how I know! Beyond the rack: you know, but yours.
Still life-giving sleep would not soon return, this being but the onset of the daytime's dark night. To shove and go because of hard pained imbrilliance. The first answer being to read a book leashed, but the best answer being awareness.
Until then: a backyard.