Scott Nichols Sex and the Minors I. the manor rests now, with empty figures beating the brushes. You point wildly, not knowing color. Your eyes with so little saline, how they lull in time. II. Should we consume this darkness? Alright, it's maddening already. This anxiety holds its fists with decorations like a sieve. III. Your eyes are a mound in the darkness. I cannot replace their broken tortures, though an old wise friend insists: just close your eyes and pretend it's Berlin. Granite hawk spying Things to come. The river comes with tiny warnings.