Your words don't make sentences.

"she crosses her legs. her stockings make a nylon whisper, and she smokes. the smoke twines up. some morning sparrows commence the skirling that they do in cities, the way they always did when you were dull-eyed, enervated, sleepless.but the room reddens, and rises, and glows. the music swarms in greater tides, ascending modulations, new lands unrolling out from under one another to reveal the silver brass frontier, threaded with a golden, crawling river. there is duration, more than change. you don't know why. and then you say, don't ask me why. " by mark nickels