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--- A N D Y   M O R G A N

Interesecting like tightropes the palms of the invalid steadied her womb. Windmills turned briefly, shuffling candor with a ruler while pie r squaring indifference. A gasp as exact as longitude fumbled its way down the staircase, disected figments of xy and graphed the indiscriminate solace of a molecule's charge. Point: She was only six weeks pregnant. Counterpoint: She's still pregnant, stomach as ooidal as ever. To paraphrase: the fibers of belief tangent aborted problematics- it's a parallax and the formula is dented, skewed by translation and limping toward z, but patterns mean little in mazes.

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