there’s a seasonal quality to converting the old, flourishing in thin air, an idea to pull the stings of comprehension, an understanding that even at the best of times seems soluble, returning with almost laughably bated-breath to this brazen-faced point that never quite shrugs off portions of its heritage

it all becomes so natural that a shapeless pipedream may hold potential – when in other lights it might be thought better of

some parts of the cycle sink the faint-hearted, strings snap and even those weaned on pot luck falter