orient me, for the night is coming. he comes to me in a dream, offering his face. there’s no reason to hope, but what’s reason got to do with it? lives appear through disappearance, kind of like fireworks, and you can’t rush this. don’t rush this, he said. only a painter can unmake sense.
grind the old moratorium into glass, everything is beneath us. i can’t deny the influence, i drank the kool-aid, i succumbed to the irrelevant I of the whole, but it was less a relationship of uncle to niece than a relation of tide and moon. if you don’t love what you are doing, it’s probably because you are doing it too fast, he said. don’t rush this, only a butcher can unmake sense.
the rest of us raise our hands into a slow clap. why are we clapping? for the mean free path, for the two days of snow which i took personally, for he came to me in a dream, and offered his face, for i am dreaming on my feet. the body an idea of october, it’s nonsensical but give it a minute, it will develop recursively or not at all. the new closure. don’t rush this, make no mistake, only a musician can unmake sense.