as you idly stare out of the window, a crack shows up in the glass, seems to be looking for something, then, as if startled, quickly retreats and leaves no trace
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a piece of paper on your desk spontaneously burns up, but on the other end already regenerates from smoke and ashes, as if a wave of entropy had passed over it
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I really hate it when this happens because I never get the chance to 'clean my room'
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thermodynamically criminal omens beg attention and as you lift the ruled page, impossible eddies of sooty air swirl around fading graphite and new indigo glyphs steam real-time into words: the quickening palimpsest nativity a telltale sign of a fax sent down on The Silver Thread