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Just looking at things with your eyes open isn’t enough. This lesson is hard to get. It is hard to get the lesson and it is even harder to know when you’ve been given it. The only certainty is that when you do get it you know you’ve gotten it, and once you’ve gotten it you can never see a thing again without knowing its there. Everything doubles and breaks at once: a heart is also a pump that underneath the town, another town’s pulse. Another hill under the hill, and under the smile the mark of the frown. The eyes don’t have it and stars aren’t even a thing that is there. Light is there, but its source has long gone. The words carp or delicate don’t know of themselves. Faith is not stored in the nostrils nor can mucous store away in the nostrils. Charm is never in reach nor is charm coming in handy when you need it. If you are a man you are also a woman, and this hurts once each month as full moons pull water. If you are a witness, you are not an expert. If you are an expert witness, you are also a mother or daughter and have been so for longer than you’ve been an expert witness. If your eyes were closed when you saw it, what did you hear? A drop of water also sounds like a grasshopper landing on wrinkled sheet of tracing paper. Tracing paper had water inside of it, or the grasshopper certainly. Wax is produced by the ear and hearing wanes depending on the waxing of a certain voice. Playing it by ear is dancing with shadows. Shadows make a kind of sound you feel on your skin—air closing in and of skies going—and blood leaves the skin without leaving the body. The body is a closed system, and this is. You are the seer of that system, and this. Close your eyes to see if this is so.