It's that thing . . .

. . . where you have to forget so much, so very much, lose it all, the up and down and wet and dry and all the ill-fitting shirts, dribble it out onto the sidewalk and let the sun lap it up, the history and presence of mind and sense of future, before you can muster enough — what is it, breath? pants? molecules in space? — to speak.

Paul Celan.

So, nothing. Right now.

But before long, folks, don't you fear, a raddled symphony of phrases heavy with wit and flourish and idea (up and down) and...