Powdered words have no place here. Carrot chopping is surprised by a wandering dream. White men --

Angry, looking for their jobs, not well educated – Clinton's basket of deplorables. Winners in the battle of the sexes – I grab a pen and the shopping list. Describe as prescribed: chopping a butterfly! Truth is pitiless.

Writing with thin black ink will transfer even thinner electrons to cyberspace, where carrots might bleed. The place, though not existing in the same way as a storm drain does, is where thoughts do. Delicacies of the imagination, progenitors of deeds, other portals for wanderers. A theory forms, bristling with experimental disproofs, which fail. The only success is failure, and failure is no butterfly at all.

Next comes broccoli. More chopping, a sensual necessity, paradox of timelessness in which I disappear. It's not speaking through a mouthful of pebbles by the sea, or through Lester Holt's evening world on the half shell. Sometime it will end.

But I can't remember when.