Nothing more than that which oft not comes often enough, the
heart is paged by the faintest of buzzings, some tiny tingle brought
on by the flit of a fly freshly hatched from its heap, the dung of
remembrance. It does not seem possible to clean up after memory,
it stops and squats too often, laying one fine mess after another,
ad nausea, ad infinitum, ad nihilo.
poetastrophy 