I. Ceiling
       Here, sleeping, it cracked. The ceiling was enough, and to her doubly, as she was feeling dirty again. Seven clouded, but eight were necessary for the opening. This because on shining hands her time ascended.
       From the yellowed sheets her eye pulled it in and... gone. Both awakening, this was never necessary to boil the words away. Wadding them up, she reached to follow her gaze, to find it, and she expected leaves. At the hand was flung dirt, dirt pulled from the ceiling. This budded, and from beneath it came down. It found her fingertips, and again in mind you'd clouded. She reached and and pulled it undone.
       Firm determination; everything looked taut. Seven, her frustration, in staring eyes a resentment. To the edge of the ceiling it crept, that resentment. Think, like doubled in plaster, enough but never. Hadn't it built from over these opened sheet the hands?
       Through her sleeping it stared.
       She awake reached that seven. It came not awakened now, the bottle broken clouded spread stomach. Think the feeling, feel the seven in frustration.

II. The Jorgenson
       The streets all traced a circle, harsh within the jar. To it we can't know, can't even if it became sick when deserted. A pledge. Tanned, the Jorgenson had gone dirty; he was lying, it scowled, to the jar.
      “No eating, everybody.”
       Done and done; big, and the least blank, least marked. It stuffed the ceiling.
       We sat in the street. Feeling. We found shavings from the hand, the creamy plastic leather.
       Even the sun barks brittle, face down and streaked. A new thorn would the harshest that was given, hemmed in. That was harsh: the movement, a blaze itself, helpless, definite. It bore the dirty burden, out eating the moldy and the molted. Winding into and between, then it wavered, and another corner knew a course, given to filth. Noted and rubbed, trotting out of the circle, philosophical like the Jorgenson.
       Caught quickly in the strobe they appeared to drink the least, and walked the dome. The deserted dreamed the jar nightmares. There were as his feelings. Noting the nothing. Wavered on sick up and empty, to sate it we had waked another. From the outer line they'd wooed and trapped in a circle. A borer? And then it was on to keep the dome shrouded in movement and empty.
       Tight, sometimes helpless, the street the ceiling, sometimes to be as growth where spent.