a one-to-one natural interchange. "what is new has become old again."

The old fudge clawed absently at his porridge.

"I should grow an onion from an old discarded one."

And I thought to myself, how it were, not like the multiplicity of nature, but a certain kind of balance: one with shoots of it, green splines going away, up toward the air, yearning perhaps for heaven.  We plant that, and it rots before giving away root and tendril to a new specimen of onion.

A one-for-one interchange, prolegomenon, naturally, cadenced by a passing of the seasons, and one onion become yet another, and some waste stuffs which nourished the new onion, like a baby crawling from the womb to dine on it's mothers flesh: I read such in Spenser, a cadre of little spider babies pouring from the womb door only to crawl up the belly of the dying forebear and eat of it to live themselves.

"I should interact with this somewhere between its terms and my own."

Our own cadence then, the fits and starts of the world proper, jaundiced and plagued by our own limitations of our frame of reference; listening to the story of Cleanthes, a dullard boxer, able to practice a kind of reductionism that made heaven itself a problem insubstantial.