If you don't make something up there's nothing to tell, just the old mute animal that sleeps and wakes and revolves its discontent against the light. The words begin as an annoying buzz, like a fly that has found its way into the room, an excess having nothing to do with anything, buzzing away in fly-Latin, questions and answers and who taught you to read the persistent ribbon like a second screen behind the well? It likes to pretend it's been going on for a long time, that it has a claim to settle, but you step out it as easily as out of damp clothes revealing the naked nauseous present like a lump on the surface of the round white moon.