White pear blossoms blurring on the downhill stride; cloud veins branching, bursting blue-blood lights and streaks; marmalade fractal-smudged bites in a Sunday; points on the mounts’ horizon, range upon range dipping over the edge of the world; angles drawn with straight lines on that world, bending Euclid, because they can, because they must – no limit to truth when the paper crumples, crumbs of calculations dropping off like forsythia-yellow stars.