delicate situations

there is a wound in me which only fragile sequences can heal. a paper crane left in the windowsill of a condemned building, a carefully piled mound of dirt. these cannot be given explanation and cannot be touched with inquiry. there are no answers to be had of them. if let to be analyzed their delicacy would demolish with the weight of intent. such actions live only and exclusively for anonymous creation on the one end, and beautiful uncertainty on the other. this is a need. like air. the only cure for the unnamed melancholy that reaches its heavy vapor in and around my lungs. i have hours and days of contaminated alveoli. tired and heavy, their purification only achieved through the most delicate of things. we, like books, are strung of motifs. what, i ask from anyone who understands, is the significance? how can I name that which looms?