it’s a mathematical formula, all of it. if you are reading the beginning of the book, you should read it while lying on the couch on your right side, letting the weight of the unread pages fall on your right arm. if you are reading the end of the book, you should read it while lying on the couch on your left side of the fairway, scattering seeds and seeds in the bare spots of the grass the spots with no grass.
the dirt should be an eighth inch tall because the sun goes through and through to the mammoth boulders underneath, which protrude just a half-inch at the top, speckled and dirty and old. rocks are alone packed into soil so thick they cannot breathe, instead random placement and worms that reach dead ends and roots that stop growing stop snaking downward, for they’ve nowhere to go. we walk and walk over and scan the terrain and think we know cracks and crannies crevices
but underneath the surface, we don’t know anything at all