On the one hand, fatigue. On the other, language. Old friends visit, bearing with them rose-colored wine glasses that for some reason remain empty. In the middle of the night, after dreams of rain, the sudden stars are brilliant and lovely, like holes in a fabric. And I still can't pronounce wainscoting.
Nor build stairs. Light poured through, as light does, according to its laws. One comes to a place where there is no longer meaningfully place and then what. Prayer? We are lost - always lost - and those screens are no help.
The fragment assumes the whole? We work diligently to create what is already made and call it home. Nobody is who they say they are but masks still aren't a good analogy. What exactly are you trying to say?
When you sleep, you don't rest. Up and down certain hills all morning like a squirrel learning how to ride a bike. The dog comes back after days away and it seems a lifetime and maybe it is. Medieval Poland supplies one answer. The perennial yawn, our exacting yet grotesque truth.
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