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We call it pretty morning when at peace we lie in squares of sunny spaces, envelop the air transparent in loosely falling dust, and embrace the moods of light: follow gold as a dark. About this metal construct the lighter colors, a mosaic of, say, blue hung in a medium of perception. While to apprehend reds, you emulsify your own body's intuitions. To clarify, I look into the roots of words: clarificare, clari, clarus, facere (to make, to make clear), and am distracted by the Grecian origins of clang, allied to clash, and see below, clank, klank, a ringing klonk, but why sucked into these pages emulsified by dust, inclined to disintegrate, when the morning eternal with golden squares waits for no dissertation? when dust reflects the translucent changes of sky? and the timing fire lights slowly along the rims of day?