By the time you get to saying something about it you find that you're talking about something else entirely. It never puts itself forward, never suggests a form of words or a way of starting off. That's actually one of the things about it, its more than discretion. As a matter it is always there, silently abiding and blended invisibly into whatever is captivating reflection. It takes some attention just to notice that all the things that define the moment with seeming obviousness are utterly inadequate to define or explain anything. They cloak themselves in the ordinary so you won't be pulled up short by the mystery of how they got there in the first place, by the fact that they rest on something that isn't ordinary at all. The talking is always beside the point, but in such an odd way because the talking being present is the point too; call it the silence inside the words.