Untitled Coach said, walk into the swing, like you're gonna go right through it, a smooth arc, as if never hit the ball, focus on the far of the arc beyond it. I tried it, swung the beechwood bat, the arc followed through, with a hitch in the middle, where the ball connected, rode on, thrums up into my forearms. Now every day walk for the end of the sunlight, into the purple sunset like crushed berries, you will want outer space as well, you will want past constellations summer haze of bees
John Hughes's Questions:
Is the formal procession toward the indeterminate and silent acceptable?