Wanted the converging parts of day to reveal themselves accordingly, to reverse the patterns of nighttime hung in darkness around the limbs of the lowest reaching branches. They sweep with the wind, catch small parts of soil or rain beating back up toward the sky, reaffirm the conditions of process, conditioned the rules of beauty before they existed. The thirds or emphasis we must catch or meter with, the small deviations between any motion that could make either beauty or the ugliness easier to discern. Wince in the mediums of decision or diverge the cautionary predicaments to condensations of sublimated convergence; the furious assumption, which parts could have led to any other difference? The axil swings in the same motions, in the ever changing and removing positions of imagined interaction or varieties of experience according to reaffirmed or reactionary performances of thought progress. The lined patterns of touch, from the branches to the ground, the patterns to hope for, the missing parts of measurable space between the ground and any amount of growth show seams in dropping or brushing along. Leave pictures of touch, faint portraits of the breeze working or boundaries of significance swinging another picture to image in mind, ever moving or remembered as stillness within other moving picture. What part of my memory will sit still? even for something as simple as that? just a branch and the ground, the difficulty of touch or finding the texture of the accidental in patterns of nature. wanted the trunk to describe the way daylight could hit, wanted to give depth apart animism, reaching or dancing or becoming something else, it needs to represent thought, not just be a tree. Its all could describe.