dispersal luck is green pitter patter the subtle spatter of rain against the windowsill 020105 ... kyla There are no ends; there are no closures large or small: when the moth flies for you, you will have known him all along. He was your oldest friend, and second oldest, and the rest, the best, the enviable, the forgotten; and all moments - those borrowed, or stolen, or justly owned - be recognized as time, that ever must resolve itself from words immaculately, quietly, and just. There are no ends. There are none. The moth is flying, the moth has flown; has landed; and always everything is living and is done. 020203 what's it to you? who go blather from