Out of mystical culminations the tremblings of the bleeding edge where heart meets brain foldings in transformations more inevitable and preponderate than the unflat universe giving back as we go forward, where quivering brave heart reaches and is met, and more than met, by quixotic brain razored or bludgeoning in quiddities exponential.
        You cannot plan that, I discovered.
        You cannot expect the expectations of chaos despite the rare nonlinear beauty of fractals you cannot imagine you can.
        The meadow might have been the lingering smoke from innumerable nectarous visions or the lingering impression within the closed eye of the wise recluse. There are no others, it goes without saying but to say it, you see, is a kind of victory.
        It is the kind I have come to.
        After the meadow.
        What was it?
        What was it?
        Was it all that was left or all that was to come or all that was transported from other budding foam of sea or space or stalk?