Iord is I ored somewhere down the line in steel, in iron. Iord is I spoke, I speak, I am complete. I think as a treat. My spokes have become sharp as I bark for I am nothing but a dog, the husky of the Laird, on a jog across landmasses as they pass, I am have become a bard of the hard coming on marred. My books are dissertation pieces proving the words we choose have come from our hometowns and not the Latin. As I research the evidence builds of a hijacking in meaning, in phonetic clones, and subverted innuendo. I trace history, I trace man, I trace psychology and I trace science as a complete logical combine piece. I might be tracing time.

Iona has lost her last name. She is now known as a person from her hometown, as if we were in the golden days where they called you what you were: Ívar, the Boneless, a sinuous tone, but we are not homeless. Iona lives on the water, an immersion mortar with her dog Thor, a calico cat, two mice, Little Black and Buff in a luff. Her cows still stand on the hill, chill escaping flies. Her pony is the epitome of good will. Her daughter took a repeller's tract to tack.