Try to belie the imagination. Try to imagine a wrinkle, a bruise, a point of convergence.

Eliminate all memory. Proliferate scathing.
Engender sound.

Sound as though touched. Rake nerve for encumbrance. Rail against and in favour and inconsistent strain.

Last, at long last, as the long last light fades, a curtain raised, a half-mast circumstance.

Indeed the abstract flails and whimpers. Indeed the words are pocked.

To get at turn away. To touch here and touch there so slowly a vein awakes. In the long light somber and the glare light brutal, in the hazing day, tactile nuance forms a soft fog.

A soft fog is a fidgety slip into the limber touch, the tongue lisping through the typing.
Here the silence sounds blinking a grasp in tumult, slowly lapping so lapse.