What’s left? You ask. Strips akin to Freddy’s promenades. Visibility pushed to the peripheries, something not equal to but greater than resilience. Still we don’t fuck here—shame. Three untenable public spaces, oft observed, rarely trod, thrum with intercession. You flew across the track despite the oncoming traffic. A phrase book might prove useful to interpret your interpretations while the referents resist classification, are unstable and subject to adaptation. Hazard a guess, maybe, on the verge. Does the number increase its value? You, afraid of profundity, chose to close your eyes—unfortunate. Note the line between curiosity and awe with your wide-angle lens, she with the macro peers for the micro to draw a line in the ash—felt with the tip of your tongue the differences in reflection. Here is pasture carved out for our departed, teeming. And the hectares adjacent, white space, save for a few errors with thanks to historical land management. Code: your four fathers demanded this place be productive, simple and silent—for the best.