A new world, material without being real, where poor ghosts, breathing dreams like air, drifted fortuitously about... like that ashen, fantastic figure gliding toward him through the amorphous trees. -Fitzgerald
in time, time will come again
pull it's drawstrings over our heads and make everything solid, shadowed.
'rememory' curling itself on the grass or howling from the parking lots
until we are left with empty space full of weight.
