By a failure in the middle or some componential devastation, the chords precisely though struck, warp their resonation in vague and sombre swerves and lovely arcs unreliable like a firework and paint your face with flame licked fascination! And she dances still, unperturbed. In happy chains, O graceful prisoner in a dateless sentence, tied in tones which loop and sway hypnotistic imperfections ascending a strange marvellousness and an imperial insight into the world like a dream the world needs and cannot enter but by consent of celestial law. By energies grim and secret, pruning patterns as would instruct by disaster. What wasn’t expected or supposed to but had to happen. The heavens know not else but to rain down relief on the rest, for unique and outrageous though, – by crashes shaped and of leftovers put together, can no dark thus in Her reside. There is no limp in Her song like would Her bent pirouette depict, but survived She dances on and on an entirety of sewn misshapen fragments out of an order broken. Of love and stitches, and smiles mightier than tears. No scathing, no catastrophes. A knotting of lost opposites flourished in bind. Orphanage of a thriven. O colourful distortion, perfect disharmony, a stamina in fault is found, beautiful accidents meant to be.