Little tornadoes came over to visit. The blue one was last. Before it was grasshoppers, forks, tiny statues of gods, pigments, and wrestlers. Then we had a tornado made of letters. And these became words. Slowly. As the tornado ejected stragglers. They fell into place. Into places. In us. As us. And this. These words are the ones. The ones you are reading are the words. In us. We are them, reading little tornadoes. You can see them all the time. You see with their seeing. Eyes, we call them. Little tornadoes. In living beings. Slowly. As us. Into places and words. Like these.