Let's say

you're half awake, the other half half asleep, the final quarter in a new state we can call by its name when its name is given us and before that, neglect. You're standing on the earth edge of Ocean Avenue, which surges, as the moon comes over, toward the tobacconist and haberdashery. A bolt of blue has ripped on the edge of one idea and is spilling another idea, a trapped and cold idea. You look up at it as toward a basketball hoop, the chains whispering about what passed through them. Maybe if you look a little deeper into the opening you will see the discarded wrapper all creation came neatly tied up in. Perhaps it retains the shape of what it held. The door of one building opens and lets out a wail. What wail is that?