I find myself curious to make a joyous conspiracy with the reader, after the form of gnostic or anarchist writings and perhaps of organizing conversations. Such a second person collective, implied or explicit in psychic connection, takes all else as our defining them, then reaches through this mirror to see the world ape our dialogue. A lie, of course: looking down it’s clear I stand in individualism but once removed, and in such riverine sentences will accomplish nothing but cold feet. What is is too real and vast, our ideas but a leaky sieve it slinks through. Feel the silt it has left on our tongues, the dusty clouds our eyes stir pushing through this paragraph! We need purchase in the flow for leverage about these surface words, this fulcrum of our shared delusion. If long levers need a distant place to stand, then we find ourselves in paradox rather than a lie. And so in hope let us wrap ourselves, in loose yards of belief, to follow the real outside our brief connection. As we dive to gain that distance, as we break the silvered surface, I wonder: what does it mean to work upon your breath? If there is never a return, always an and then;