Everything happens in circles,    rotations that curve around a powerful body.      Lines to intersect.      I put the tape recorder on hold,   and fiction from two years ago rolled from my fingers,   deleting, deleting, deleting...   deleting the main figure in an act of deliverance... deliberation...   the lead was had.   Rotations on an intersect course,   re-navigated by the simple turn of a head...   The pieces are in their places, let the analysis roll forth.   I've only just begun to realize the obvious powers of honesty   and the delicate timing between words and silence.      In between moments of vision,   the precious few that allow for enlightenment,   the optimism has become tainted,   and the stoic is in demand for his skills.      Void of any description,   but quite clear in his intentions,   the tone tells the story,   becomes the vehicle.      The words seem to indicate something lost within a struggle.      The tight confines of a room occupied by two people who were once so close... symmetry sought perfection.      Symmetry sought perfection,   and realized that the interpretations numbered too great.