The set: An upstairs and a downstairs, winter in the north, a house on a hill in a silent, coniferous land. Upstairs: The Ship of Dreams; a large double bed where I lie in a sleeping bag under a warm quilt, dressed in merino underwear, studying Chögyam Trungpa, Volume II

Downstairs: Logs burning loudly in the wood stove; the best way to heat at least a part of the building without having to pay ridiculous sums for electricity. Bach on Spotify on the Mac via the flying fingers of Maestro Glenn Gould, kept loud enough to mean something to me upstairs in the Ship, where I maintain that a straightforward allocation of likewise simple statements, [somewhat like a crude map or the leisurely ordering of objects in a space such as a room or a mind, leaving details as well as the greater picture to the reader - who in the best case scenario isn't but a consumer, but a creator - to imagine] shall constitute poetry that will make the 95% of all the grammar school etudes published on public sites obsolete, perhaps in the manner and method of John Cage's Lecture On Nothing, which simply describes the timeline and structure of the lecture itself, also having me recall Maurits Cornelis Escher's lithograph Self Portrait in Special Mirror as well as his lithograph Drawing Hands, in which he portrays his hand drawing his hand drawing his hand. I'm even ready to go as far as letting the rebel leader Jesus's cleansing of the Temple inspire a recommendation to most innocent souls to stay the fuck away from the alphabet without a really good cause!