Unlike an overview of optics, this newfound proclivity for destruction forces me away from your more comfortable layers. Let's move toward closure.
Think about it, swaying like you do beneath an oppressive rubric of cogitation.
We've all fallen for separate versions of what shouldn't be written, long lost on a plane of fabric woven in some other tongue built around us like walls and echoing; this car can't undermine what's already been consumed: entire shores-full of rotting shoes and bedframes and shit (less often from dogs than from our siblings or selves), rings of charred wood no longer smouldering, whole forests felled beneath some gaze shot across a landscape of names and faces.
This is what we've layered over ourselves, alone these years of sleeping together.