The visualization center of my brain has turned on and it won't turn off. Möbius strips of fabric are flipping in my head. Twill tapes are forming struts within wool that blousons out and ripples like parchment. Pinched-out fish-eye darts are drooping and transforming into cowls. It doesn't make sense? That's all right. It will make sense once it stops and I can go back and re-read this and arrest the process. . .

*****

Tomorrow, in London, sheep will graze.