Permutations
of the human
shift
in random patterns: cognates rambling, not with any urgent purpose,
towards the novelty of sense:
they
hop the fence between the known
and
unknown every day and night – looser, possibly, inside our dreams than in our
daylight schemes, but always probing:
spiced
by some faint echo of the shout
that
started everything: the genesis of supernova, and Manhattan, light. It seems
inarguable, in the grand descending curtain
of
November, that our spanned fraternity
of
morphing souls has only one great secret interest which, however unacknowledged
by its vast collective convoluting self,
is
nothing else but this: to feel eternity.
Which
I do when I call up for Chinese takeout – szechuan steamed wontons,
shrimp and snow peas – give the man
who
bikes them by a hefty tip: we greet
each
other as if we were strangers in on it together, which we are. Kaleidoscopic
metamorphoses of star.
.
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