3,5 I’m glad that mine is not the name of your unplaceable homesickness.That you don’t wish the road was a silk scarf you would spin on your waist to pull me close. That in the night the rosary of seconds tiptoes past you in an unbroken chain of quietness and I don’t send you vigils as a gift. & that at noon, when shadows are clipped to extinction by the zenith lanterns, you don't surmise that yours hid unobtrusively
Ice-cream cone dusk candy-colored Malickian-clouds. Cricket sounds go up,cuts to: Cloudness!Woman sleeping as soundly as a fast asleep baby girl.Clouds goin' up, growin' up snail-slow as smoke being breathed out.Lost boy in the woods gazin' upon blurry tree tops.Fiery crackles+image of bleary coal-like chunk o'burnin'wood superimposed on her arm as Oriental cinematic tattoo.Faint sounds o'local fauna: Rest,Innocence.