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at mo sphere

Time becomes delicious. Time is delirious in this world. Time is a pineapple.

Many abstractions are calling for my attention. Privacy. Suspense. Contact. Color. Collaboration. Focus. Mind. All of them are as sweet as a blanket.

Is breath an abstraction? No, but it's air, so it's related. When breath touches the mind, it is a kiss of recognition.

A man lights candles by the sea. You think of it a hundred times a day. The gods hover around those guttering flames until the wings on their feet get frayed. Then they fall and dig holes in the sand. They scuttle in and out clicking their single claws. The air smells like matches and iodine. You want to eat the tide. You want to scratch signs in the skin of sand. The music is moaning. The seaweed writhes. Your knees knock with the chill of frozen observation. Go ahead, make light of your hair. Touch your own cheek. I tell you, I tell you, I promise you, it will be over. We will dissolve into particles. (Lucretius)

My thinking is all over the place. (I like to jump into self-observation.) I can't think straight. That's a special time. No need to worry. Writing reflects this in bits and pieces, facets like a bug's vision.

ga ga a go go