______________Tangible
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Limed: fermented, not forgotten
I had a couple of aesthetic experiences with limes recently,
the first having spent a good amount of time in a fridge, the second in Sangria.
here, in their distinct graces . . .
The fullest words are woven with silence.
What makes a letter?
The height, breadth of strokes?
Or the area that surrounds it?
Naturally, they need one another.
The Nothing that hugs every vulnerable edge of the Something, giving it form.
Yet how often are we mindful of that space . . .
of silence ?
Our world brims with things. Unless we’re cognizant of the pause between the stuff
we’re left with something not worth reading—
illegible chatter
We need space to break up the monotony of form.
What if we could learn to focus on that space?
How might our perception of the world change?
What might we find?
I drew a bit of all of us in him
the man on the train
regarding no thing in particular
but with a melancholy air
and noticing he couldn't see me — or didn't —
i sketched him
beneath a heavy brow, which he couldn't fully know
some light.
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beneath_
beyond_
and we_
deep
muddled
chaos
fine
direct
serene
Ouroboros
entropy
infinitude
dreamer
neither here nor there
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Melody medley