Between lisping partitions of rain we ache. We long. It has been called this mortal longing this calculation of histories of distances. We seek the symmetries of lost hours in threads of rain falling graying glaring we reach between to fondle what can never be held only cherished. We run the risk for lasting symmetries. We seek with seeking being the side effect to breathing to nostalgia for living. We are seeking our truest forms. We have grown and raised golems half lit emerging as liminal wants. Our golems our mirrors seeding our truest born. Words keep us company. They are lighted proof of something or other. The words a harem of fireflies also embers christlike in their flagrance and scorch. The words are our lot. Invisible filaments dangle everywhere in this world between worlds filaments as the veins to an infinite geography to white hot plains mapped out by arteries. Here we ache here we long here we grow inaudibly moist with slaking want. From the molten core songs arise as summons. We sing for lost hours for symmetries sought. We are needful things with needful claims seeking our truest forms. Every golem mirrors its maker its shaper in shadows of creeping cradling dawn.