It doesn’t happen so you would notice, the framework becoming the groundwork for the next layer of destiny. The light dances on the surface, but deep, where the undertow takes hold, there is nothing but the pull to the edge. In time our sorrows become poems, paper boats for the loved who have gone. We do not miss what is invisible, but the scent of desire stings the nostrils and waters the eyes. The voice never comes from the emptiness of space. It never calls to us from dusty clouds creased by the wind. If only we could know it is all according to plan, if we could know how long the wreckage will stand.