Where weekly salt stored its provision in rickety accelerations. Inside, the sweat of cotton candy, cramped bodies, row of stalls wetly shaded. The view. There was a freedom in this, despite the controversy on the unit or measure; whether weighing the cadence of prose diagnosed by periods or sentences moderated by caesura, in this world neither sentence nor period make matter. The text itself will be formatted by the action of the markup. Lines then can be spaced according to thought. Let the machine crunch it together. (Else use the old pre tags and leave it lie.) Freedom in the route. Carelessly break when you wish. The song.