The revolving door is perhaps a clinical millimetre. Together they cram middling carp. Astute high-ball trickle. Like every plotless remnant, peeped veneer or vintage entourage. Repeating anything canonical. In pursuit of rotated scrawl. Tear through space my victorious squid. The ruse, the pearl garb. Latch at elbow’s length. Who owns that long phoneticized wick? In between a Tatlin-tee. Day of the Baroque chore. Static relic, dim alloy. The slender heap of reciprocity.