In a singular moment feeble light, with scarce perception, turns in upon itself by force. A zenith event rears on the horizon-- casts vacuous proportions in onto itself. It's something, in a keener sense, it's an implosion Tersely observed it will suck us into the abyss, from perhaps whence we came. To pitch, roll and yaw. later, float down trailing white the line. A first accomplished fate. When they close the books on this, the questions won't go away. They'll linger to control our bearings. I can hear it, no power now, and landing like a glider, blown off course, the main man won't give us a second try. So watch the crosswinds, not tail or head winds they are most risky at re-entry. I'm afraid practice is making perfect pretences. No matter. Sit back and count window time: the most memorable experiments of a tin-trail through a window wide-blue come through how whatever way we can in somewhat of a singular try.