Because where doesn’t matter. Because it is what it is. Because fortitude and solitude are the same. Because all is at the crossbeams of a newest high. Because abstinence revolves itself. Because revolution turns itself again to the frontfold. Because a dream in the daytime; amidst air in the night. Because I am you are and we, as one. Because of stranglers. Because the nearness of the vision is the furthest from the truth. Vision of the dead. Because we aren’t in the business of. Because we have none, the haves to the hads, haven’ts to ain’ts. Because noon on the thirteenth day is still noon. Because thunder. Because because is a relative relation. And lies sting, the only if it isn’t known and then the trade between the traitors who tried, who take and who get, who is and who not, the god and a mite. Because rebels rebel and angels angle and the forces of polity resist on its axis. And if the rebels, begin. So it is of the martyr. Almost only, but strayed. And in peripherals all tangled. And then the returners return, zones and zoos and undead reams—before the light lies, life lingers, love leans. . .