Library of meataphores slowly lifting back the big darkl ceiling.Exiting through the pages in an arm chair, see the language, that reepssegwais of dimensional crust of bread coughs with eyes closed eachshape remembers yesterdays simple design, in time we reach somethingmagnificent, un seen unforgotten unreal un imaginable,unweary,except ourselves in the mirror in the morning.We will not see the magic of our stockings laughs being torn from theankles of our sorrow. Forevor more we see legistical window panes,metaphorical holes in the fabric of our tedium through out through in,through the orange moments pasted to the walls we find the vegetationof our sequince and pon the ceiling the vents seem like eyes watchingand listening and talking and frowniung upon our lives, ourexsistences, our levers, our meddling.