Worlds await along the way, attractive to the pen as dots, pulling mind lines, pushing closure, connecting wayward thought. One consists of winners, every weakness strong, joyful shouts from housetops, nothing really wrong. Another world flaunts half as winners— river wearing rocks, weasel doing in the goose, these shoes wear out my socks. One haunts all as losers— sun evaporates the brook, goose-stuffed weasel always dies, the sun itself is cooked. Their gravities will pull you, your pen may visit all, satisfying landscapes, every one a fall.