Snatch itch from fraud depletion; depreciation is the state of anti-nature: decay and a dropping off the map is a failure to image a continuity beyond the death of the self. It's where artificial intelligence gets its misnomer: a being is not a time or its space, neither are its thoughts, these are transients, clarity spiked with punches. The real would rather feel than be defined by past deeds, entitled is Sir Failed to Have when in-front-of-the-face is where the loom unspools. The fates have it! Their sword-scissors of unwieldy Damocles, that desk where we have both crouched is only a cut-promise if you never get out of the house. Move, thus. It's an easy solution to the anxious stare in to the empty room; the birds understand that to copyright a chirp and expect not only royalties, but the downstream license to remixed songs, is to deny the act of morning. And at night, it's time to hide and release, gone are the catches, lost are the impulses to take life by the thorns and bleed by hand into the rosebushes of permanence whose life in winter can only cry out: we are crows, waiting for the corn to grow, unconcerned with replacement, for our task is caw caw caw.