The Angle of Time

Under the angle of time There is a coordinated effort of transparency. In the utter lack of outer space We’re all running back to the woods. A sacrament unadorned, raining onto our heads, Into our eyelids, into the taste buds. I don’t plan to imagine anything. This is a construct of destiny. A destiny that works backwards, Changing the past from the future. Like a doctor with a time-traveling suture. However, Every star fades.