You will find soon. Doors waiting. In front. Between the trees, colors. Leaves are exceeded. Brought by the hair. They dance inside of them. Finger dresses. Like hanging gardens of air. Free of life. No keys. No meat to sell at the makeshift tables of the slaughterhouse in the open air. Irons for composing are sold. Meat books. Givers of life and death. They hang from the past. In agony.