The act of movement is a lie, we are falling
into vacuums of our future selves; stop your crying.

The flower blooms for those who are the seed. The art
is dying. The wind does not blow—it recedes—the sound

is whining, not sighing. We are resigned. We ever refine
our fate—these words are done singing. We need more

reason to create; our purpose is defining.
Science is the art of predicting what preserves.

The trick is to recreate memory so perfectly
we become the effect of our playback.