ㅁ The reasons we do things remain inscrutable, our thoughts spin, running rings, with motivations dull and grayish clouds that drift within their bony domes; while outside visions lift away the seething foams of seas that beat and thrash against perceptions, so at last a tiny cache of meaning falls like snow which leaves a pallid face which tilts up into space.
– a sonnet in iambic trimeter.
