Little attention given here to self-reflexivity, no attempt to catch an effect of subjectivity in amber. It can be done, but always seemingly by accident, but it can also be avoided, the net made too open, too clumsy, so as not to catch on those aromatic burrs of life. And always writing at the worst part of the day, the tired hinge between day and night. In this moment all of life, and burning up with no residue. And it was the same yesterday and will be again tomorrow, the life escapes. Time is only material to be used, having no value for the nostalgias. Make an imprint on it and see how quickly it fades. Giddy with time without noticing it, in free fall. But that is how you see the world, through resonances of thought and memory. Some ghostly presence hanging in the web, not there, just dreamed on, but a cut in the web felt like a wound. This feeling of clumsiness is itself clumsy, the opening echoed in regretful blunderings. You always missed seeing the pattern in the carpet, so there must be new patterns that you are missing now, to strike your forehead in the future. That is the self-reflection, ordinary complexity of little value, let it go.