Ingress There's no uniqueness to me. I'm just leaves and violin eyelashes drifting in pale starlight before morning wakes me. I let my toes test the riverbed, close my eyes and hold one piece of a branch, twice-broken against the page. My voice echoes in rivulets of cliché, the doubt that spreads from pulse to pen, then pause, before I look north for a stream now flecked with typefont and ink swells.