Inside the iron gables, where fluidity has stopped, once more an open wound dried up.. Saved from emotion and a flute playing wonderment, the air is dry up here. No more the adoring dawn or sprightly footed, only tasks remain. Only questions of function from the paper back cardboard people, all else is futile.. The iron gables has lost its neck of vulnerability, no more its wishing, no more its wanting.. Bring me back its spells secretly as it remains aloof made from rubber.