The foot goes forward, yes. Yet there are roots. And a giant orb which focuses its cyclopic eye on a moiré morning. When the microcosm is dry—it's earth; wet—it's water. Water, reeds, electric eel: one possibility. Sun, reeds, dust mote and mite: another. Whatever the elements (it's urban/it's pastoral, it's
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Costumes Exchanging Glances
The rhinestone lights blink off and on. Pretend stars. I’m sick of explanations. A life is like Russell said of electricity, not a thing but the way things behave. A science of motion toward some flat surface, some heat, some cold. Some light can leave some after-image but it doesn’t last. Isn’t that what they say? That and that historical events exchange glances with nothingness.