Loudness crowds out clouds and flushes with spades. A person is unborn at these now quiet, now solid feet, where the earth is being bled to make room for one of its tomes. The book of the center centers on preventers, the stones that see risk as the temperature that would turn their stolidity into gas. Wish not, want not, say the expecters, living off and on the land like transistors. The thing about electricity is that it is a thing. It has crass passages and short sentences. And at the right decibel, digs trees. On a wander, static finds straightforwardness temporarily delightful. Frigid mornings and cold nights. Redundant bliss and formless might. Spatial and peremptory airs put on snow cones. Sugar and yeast are results, procedures, and instructions. Fade like a group of one, into that numberless zero place, where and when nothing comes into its own.