Margaret Mead took a spring on a stroll through the midnight vapors in an attempt
to explain the ground here and its use of phantoms. What she wanted was to integrate
the ethnology of sleep into a pervious bed of walking shadows.

                  The rain has no visible current, no sexual behavior, it has soaked into plants,
                                    into children — the rain has no formal doctrine, so Margaret Mead
                                                                        went to Somoa to communicate with a well.

“Ancestors are gravity springs used for organic development.” Or, “Integrate the dead
to influence variation.”

         The violet. The perception.

                     The storage of a nonmaterial entity that nevertheless interacts with sound.

Classified according to the gut, the path of a pitch is moving. For Margaret Mead,
the specific form of a walk through the spectrum of the living depends
on its use of phantoms — you need to know how to dance.

She calculated the pollution and the red shift in the tendons of possession,

               it knew something she needed to know. The way of the grass and of the vines,
                                                         the sound of religion, here. Ancestors talking in her ear.

She found that what she really wanted was an animistic philosophy developed
in the trees, to the way things really were, spirits similarly swung toward