Seven

A period at least seven years long as soon as the end of the previous next year has been achieved to no end on terraces where shine rains on tabletops and desks with huge pencil sharpeners meant to sharpen pencils larger than the tables and pacemaker machines with sliding windows pushing away from where someone or someone else stands looking through looking glass and then is the time to remember Alice who fell down the rabbit-hole looking at books yet to be read full of familiar fashionable stories of fallen angels and obtuse angles greater that the angle that is just right nine times ten – n multiplied by n plus one where n is ten minus one or to put it bluntly making it easy for crows to understand, nine where n doesn’t mind being nine angels fly away from shoe stands untying the laces uniting directions making weird names like north of western east and so on laughable jokes that are mere facts that could be found in dictionaries and computer screens scanning raster roasting nuts in a pan on low flame smelling nutty but butter in brown mixed with peanuts spread on slices of burnt toast for Sunday mornings asleep next to tall glasses of coffee or juice listening to punched holes on cardboard sheets through which pass rainbows in seventy-three colours till the towels all fade away like kings whose songs are not remembered anymore munching on biscuits of light green pistachio smelling like concave lenses, tasting like a pleasant surprise of planned unexpectedness while words that are meant to be slippery grow rough edges tighten their grips on wrists that miss little watches that are seen on tall towers instead