We are ten thousand beliefs in nature, ten million beliefs in self. We strike assignations between trees, bolder still in front of mirrors. We are creatures of habit, we are buildings within rooms. There is mud on our feet, and always blood on our hands. Angels mutter in our absence and demons roll their eyes. It is within the structure of worlds that creatures have no contemplation, have no idea of movement within the ether. So we stand and we sit, and we sit and we stand. We lay our hands flat on the table and we pretend to have motion when there is none. Cards are dealt on that flat table, our fate is sealed, but as motionless as we are in the cosmos, we stay static at the table, no muscle movement, just the tic at our jaw and the pulse at our wrist. As trees shift in the breeze, our hearts and souls waver and flick between realities unbound. The quietude of ten thousand natures strike against ten million wide-eyed selfies.