I am the exhalation of an end, of the baroque and the barren, of a speeding train. the road as womb; Compass as timekeeper. A gird entangled, suspended from branches breaking under winter ice. If I could see the color of air breathed, changing with the movement across tectonic plates. 150 pounds displaces. 150 pounds so easily displaced. I pass faster than the minutes, quivering alongside the motor-driven everything. Proximity fluctuates and landscapes imitates. At home with the inbetween and the continuity of inconsistency.