It goes on all the time. The continuous dream-reel un-realing. By whatever means screened . . . imperturbable surface of mirrors or ritual bowls of blue vapour . . . eyes shut softly weeping machinic unconscious. Not yet the epiphytic argument of ambiguous intent but approaching vestiges of a former form, time-forced forgetting flowers. Joys of strict discipline and flexible mandibles. The entification of the id is complicated by the fact of matter. Syntactic action at a considerable distance from the initial utterance. Frequencies spondees and other cathected pleasures of the imploding verbal inevitable, besotted with multiplicity and within us eeriness.