So what are the words for this empty shelf beside this open scale. These are patient things like a framing device or a clock that's ticking when it's time is moving to gone. Clarity purge and the fix are all old enough to ride the tongue of this sweet beast. Following us as it is with its glowing sheen and the many many rusty gates that're jabbled into the flanks of it's soft flesh. Thief, turncoat, or pilloried obstructionist they all plead, We've done so many things, everything even. We've seen you before. Oh the shame, Oh spare us the shame. There's paper below my watchful eye and beside this gabled porch. Paper for the flames of the Good Friar. Torn and left beside the wooden bench. The bench complains beneath his ass. The Good Friar says, Near to every dear and bidden piece of it but only once for every penny turned. Worry the lark of this gloom, It has no home. As this weather blows so the trees will continue to hang at or below the distant sky ...