A pilled morning air daftly suffuses the bones of the wood constructing the balcony supporting me. Generous molecules give their frenzied energy in expressive love for those that are mine, ladled on and in this being. They support me no less than I them, this slab of errant urge, as frenzied, without hope of knowing a state ungenerous.
There is a line reserved for mystics and death for writers that you never want to cross if the latter's your deal.
Eggs infiltrate plate, ape responds by knifing it and ingesting. Ingesting, ape gurgles, belches, moves forward a few steps, a few steps more, a yard becomes a mile, energy has accrued and been dispersed.
And I'm fairly sure this is what we're supposed to call life in the biological sense, and in the sense to which capital has reduced it. A mere nay-yay-saying bit of sallying 'round the pole we imagine feeds us. The pole is "physical security"; its price, the feral opposite, blood-thirsting eyes in the middle of the night, by streaming dream or the hateful shard of paper claiming another bit of you.
Denouement.
Resumption.
No comments:
Post a Comment