to be god-filled is to be enthusiastic. When a dot begins to move and become a line, Paul Klee writes, this requires time. Things are what they seem to be: blood on the butcher’s apron, plaster marred with scrawls and scratches, distance the deep cloud-shadow veils and discloses. In the old tales, the pursued mortals transmute into heady flora, into the diffuse light of constellations.