To start with, we believe that everything is real. Old clothes, past lives, the promontory of the nose over the face. Years stretch the scaffolds of our years. Real objects, or so it seems to our vestiges of sense, are holy things. We would set them on fire, if they would relinquish – to us – eternity. So some objects shake free of our bodies, leaving scales within our dust. New objects emerge, fantasies layered upon the sediment of fantasies, a pile our erosions deign to shape. Sure, it might be said there is intention in the mix, a hint of our perceptions, or an impression formed from mist. The damp, forgotten days have coalesced into form, and some vagrant energy has guided them to walk. There is an object called to learn, and another called to age, and their lighted shapes diverge from an originating shadow. Nascence gathers dust. Stone caresses stone. Our corridors are cluttered, full of tables, desks, and chairs.