>The minimum difference of what makes things happen.
When meeting at the end of fortune–despair …
lost to the few spectators passing. Unwinding in copper kettles.
Journey becomes a death of passion’s subdued design.
Where knives and forks pierce the outer lining of the hemisphere.
To eat upon the weakness of the entertaining few and scattered
to eaves completely out of reach. Covered in black heaving rain.
Smothering and forcing the bile to rise from within.