August saw forgotten time stream through the windows. Opened them and let in the cool air of a brand-new—what is today? August heard a ballad in False Vacuum, dedicated drumming words for meaning sound and texture, broke February's heart. March continues on. April awoke with a start, Julius in bed with another month, Octavius questions his own identity. Octavius hears Freyr tell Baal the river is heavy lately. There are colors about it and everybody agrees it's brighter, faster, an all-around jolly good fellow. Decemberus beys at Luna, the whore of the twelve. Invisito interruptus, Freyr did once, in jealousy, excluded. August saw sentences d(rown)(angling) boat-edge-wise inforgetuo the River Styx, siphoning the end of time up for the nymphs on suckling to. August heard coins at the bottom.
August was forgotten in time, seen through the eyes, the windows to the soul, the rivers of focus, exhortations of genetic cruft, aesthetic appeal, and bullshit. Octavius looked into August's eyes and says he says Your Eyes: More Wondrous Than The Novas of the night skies, he says, I Dig You, Girl. She's all bashful now. Decemberus thinks in different and smaller patterns. February thinks it all fits into dictionaries. November is tired of all the rain. Octavius is arranging some flowers and sweating a little.
August forgot which month, was found wandering the gardens and identifying leaves, singing a little in circles intune, a found Month grepping for meaning in the lines of the treepalms, a lost Month rain or shine, August, tomorrow, will have turned to stone in the garden, behind the walls, and Baal will come down infury; great deluge just a dewsprinkling for the trees grass odd-shape-mineral-deposit.