It's not despondence. That's when I can't see at any angle the insides of me. It's a tragic rending of the fabric of quilted time. Where the cross-stitch feels the gate switch and all the sheep escape. It's looking it in the face and sight your eyes both of them; framed across my glasses, glass. And where did it go? It's right here. It's heavy, but it doesn't sit. It's gravy, but I won't eat. But I will eat. And there it is. Indigestion. The sense of a bending to a sleep discalmed; disclaimed: where goes to when deep in the glen. And here I am in the grass with evening dewdrops - a metaphor and really three letters long s a d.