Beneath the Sand of the Rhode Island desert is a black tarp. It holds the old in. It blocks what once was, and left it up to chance as to the new. Lucky us. I discovered it by chance anyhow, maybe after rain, maybe after years of trying. Despite hectares of wondrous wanderings, sand in my clogs, the whole lot, every single yard; there, exposed was the snub. A curtain call for landscaping. There, exposed, was that woven plastic stuff beneath this glimmering surface, and it became clear in a matter of minutes. The sacred backdrop was a half-facade (though of course even a facade is a real thing). Terrain over terrain, in layers, not quite artificial, but definitely faked. Terroirism, you might say, in this coming season of autumn (and he did). Still. The frogs leap and croak and ribbit, just like in all those old plays. They take center stage. There were two of them on this one day.

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In any case, imagine your body being called a byproduct! How rude. Though I suppose we are all biproducts anyhow, so it isn't such a leap to begin...despite the fact that you must leap to begin it.