Thin light emerges from a darkroom.
Swinging playfully before the door of shrouded things to come.
Standing tall with a mop and broom.
Sun-drenched wind sweeps through.
The eating machine has stopped.
The second shots on its way.
All that’s left is pointing.
Restraint to a box of the other imagination.
Look to the left.
Who needs a bowl of shrimp?