It's 8 AM again. It's modular arithmetic again. The dissonance is thick. The sin is all
original. The midpoint is anathema to the extreme. From pareidolia to synesthesia, there
is not figment from which to avert one's eyes.

The out-and-back has three redeeming features. None dare smear the miracle. The
astronauts are sleeping, each beneath a beach umbrella. There's potential energy in a thin
candy shell. One listens to a symphony with cotton in one's ears, not in the manner

to which one has grown accustomed. An obscenity for each occasion, each occasion
suitably maligned, if amplitude is jointly inversely proportional to longitude and latitude
then there's a singularity at (0,0). Arbiter of arbiters, all heirs are arbiters

and simultaneously govern. Take two of each frequency to fend against the coming flood.
Cast off your causal chains. As having traveled back in time I redirect affected butterflies,
I wave the wand and, poof, the wand is gone.