There were many steps around his fingers, round and twisted distortions of feathers. The distinguishing mark of his vein seemed blue and realistic, as if the sun had set vineyards we were watching. He said, “There were many distinguishing features of our jawbones.” A corrupted tree was the sign of a new intention. And we were clever; all we had was sawbones, or bones that were sawed, it was hard to tell with racks of pain. She tried mangling her hair again, a sculpture of divine proportions and she fucked anyone who could afford it. I hated the incompetence on my part, I didn’t take up the rope and strangle all politicians. It was an impasse and the blades were drawn onto sand. She said she liked it, especially when my hands were a warped conception: as long as we weren’t conceiving.