You can only see a person’s finished work the end result the words of fitted lines the frames the rhymes. Not the research lines the subtitles the erased words in the rubber mind the long list of things to add forgotten no epic made this time the thing is just another CharlaX added to the list on the last place people look when they are given time to browse. The lines dot out to intersect in spatial finesse as if it is the artistes’ conception of the rings of the universe. Add some color the long think lines become the blue ones turning purple on the ends the thin ones yellow out to read the normal lines becoming black as ink and turning white on page. There is a little dab of do you can you see it in the middle of the imagined lines that blotched ink blotted out of all the missing letters the misspellings and the wish fers just lying there its hard now to describe the color gone transparent non but opaque a word eye like to use is fine. The missing lake. The part of eye the tumor did not eat. The Circle drawn in the center of the lines must represent the finished poem all the intersecting coming from the hub to represent the meat. They meet. At center of the storm of life. To form a poem from CharlaX.
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