A book is a finer pillow than a stone. A drowned book floats face down. A book in a sandstorm constantly changes its mind. Who has not heard of the book, carried over the heart, that stopped a bullet? A watch was in love with a thief, but the thief had many watches. He wore several on each arm. Like most watches, eventually it got sick of dreaming. Nobody cares that the book eats so little to stay alive. Nobody cares about the book of bandages. There is a book looming on the horizon. The book open to the sky is the horizon. What to say about the water bottle? It hardly exists, having already failed as a river. And the rain, tapping its fingers, so impatient, hasn’t it already failed as a cloud?