This is an unusual story because of the way it is composed of lines hung from crossbeams, or maybe those are fenceposts and the lines are some strips of fabric that are nailed to the fenceposts in a land of windy grazing. This might also be the interior of an instrument, one to be plucked. It would be good to pluck a few strings of this instrument on a windy day while the cows are out; while the cows are coming in. Other possibilities include a page of notations that were never made of a song that was never played–the stave became heavy with boredom while it waited for its music, where is my music. Has someone just turned on a lamp? Can we find a trace of the impulse here among these lines? This might be a story composed of powerlines, a tale a metropolis is telling itself one night as it tries to find some rest in all this madness, where can a city find a little peace, don’t tell me to look at the stars, I can see them, it’s too bright, etc. They are the scratch marks on the walls of all horrifying ideas; a stew made with 1000 bay leaves, eaten by women who have been lost at sea–a whole lost-at-sea-society. We need powerful flavors: strength. Or maybe these markings are the comings and goings of some species of toboggan.