Spending time inside the eyes. It is not an eternal form. Causality will kill the effects. The silent fright. Under the shadows are all wishes. Catastrophe of suffering. Announced for surprise. Then the leaves ferment. In precision. It was an afternoon of thoughts. They are blades. At no time is anyone on the street. No one with a face. Days without appearance. Without pain. Without mirrors of suffering. Of the image permanence. They make their hands and body and their cold image without pain. Still weak and haunting. It is unknown. Think of it as a meat crystal. Although still always present as its own skin.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.