It can be fashioned out of bright lights that I could've sworn I've seen around close corners, refraction betraying hidden dances across the mineral specificity. It can be molded like clay by a personally grand design but animated, truly drawn by its own stagecoach driver and a complex code of independent loyalty to match. It can bitch and moan until it really doesn't seem much like a love monster anymore, does it? At least to the colorblind who know not to notice the texture and vibrancy between their fingers as we all do when we're young. It can send messages mixed by the howl of being stuck between stations, the resistant metal shriek of building a foundation in a void. It can feel really stupid. But then, as the day ends and processes finalize, soon to begin again with newness of spirit and reacquired presence. As babies become elderly and organic structures betray their fragile anchor on self ownership. As tombs lay silent, avoided, un-invigorate