["My mother is a fish" ~ J. Steinbeck]
Cold wind plows the ether, and plows there, gathering clouds in uneven, woebegone 'debts'.
Still, a felt frontal temp 'trop'.
Imagine, then, in that troopin townward, a bloody nuclear 'winder' & else that, let us further imagine, goes with it. How cataclysmic it would have been back in the day; how, lest we forget what aint there (really) to remember, it would in its fullness, in a refreshed nightmare scenario, p.
And still, an October rain.
A passionate embrace of liquid presence like no other we want to remember just now.
This passion which is like no other.
This presence which is like no other.
We don't want to remember any another just now.
And we don't want to remember the 'trout' except by a flick --
of the imagination.
Flickerer's closer to his mother than she thinks.