Some things are just pretty. They may not have the majesty of ancient pyramids, nor the serpentine austerity of shadows tracing the downward stones of Chichén Itzá on the equinox. But they have a place as any daily time traveler knows. The lampost. The dented mailbox. The opened paper envelope. The broken stairway. The patio chair. They are the things that make up the outer world which, by words, are recreated. Sometimes these are cast again as pictures into the faraway stars. They could be hunters, shields, and snakes there. Mostly, though, they decay and fall apart to nothing on Earth. To see the rusted pan, the rusted pail, the snapped-handled barrow still overturned to keep the rain out is to witness the passing moment faded beyond perfection.