No word back. Anger supplies a tedious line, threaded thru a purposeful haze. Why fly? The birds have all instructed their wings. We live in words, not on them.
Confusions support theories based on urges and still. Each night expects a certain day. We pore thru pages, lifting words, and then documents, a way to assert. The bombs are simple steps, clutter for buildings.
Some people walk away. It grows a matter of love.
To establish the terms, we step a few paces, turn, and settle the word. It is a time of definite wording, like loss immaculate. We don't know everything, just the word for something. And the thing is, sometimes.