I think not. No tie of words. No day no. Neither fabric nor silk. No thin sheet of space. Nor lose no. Not the lonely. Neither to the future nor to the past. Neither of anguish, nor of death. Removing the thought and the voice. In case it ever comes. Let him find the door closed. It opens, closes, nothing. Wait for the seated door. You don't see strollers down the hall. The light flickers on and off with the same cheap, old-fashioned lightbulb indifference. It takes time in the void of the transparent glass. The eyes of time play the lonely game of passing.

Sense, then ex-isto as hypo/thesis.