If the goal is to write a little bit of the page into the air past the redline and also left of the three hole punch even into the desk or brad and pocket folder that held a few looseleaf and folded notes with lacey spiral in blue or black or green or red or purple or blue or penciled color or the worn ribbon of the smith corona and a smudge or two of number two shavings and lead from the twizzle stick sharpener exposed spinning that sweet low music all those very years of school, yea even unto those days of marbles in the school yard of strange deodorant and gym clothes with school colors. But that is just the beginning breath - it is mostly about remembering nonvisual laden with heavy summer air of woolen green blankets of chicharras ladled from the largest thinnest aluminum pot wobbling atop a bland white stove; the names of marbles, the names of movements of the glass or agate or snake swirled on the way to the baked dirt oven of an indention and then the retribution and swift judgement of the quickest - that thumb to finger span outward and the quick crack of destruction.