When the day begins at dusk indefinite articles leave the trees and language is suspended by the thread of a forest. Whomsoever shall pass gains the critic's small mass and prays to the edges of a wooden bench. Concern rings the futility that smells like a yellow drink no lemons, no aid, no alligators can cross this new threshold. Call the moment what you can and sever the connection between reason and seasons and minds and matters. Meaning; what a thing. It's no mission but submission to the cowlick and king.