I have lost the plot of the story you are telling; the flat clear nouns you release into the air dissipate like fleet herds between us. You say something about using the sleight-of-eye an onion makes for sadness to your advantage. Then a young storm, gone too quickly to believe in. Rain-cooled brimstone seeps up as today’s dusk. Like me, the last light feints focus. Thus we are liars.