Being blankets and suffuses, underlies and overlays; nothing
doesn’t have a cover from which nothing isn’t made: everything
is anything you like: constellated atoms spike and swoop
and promulgate their warp and woof to keep you fizzing
in a grand and infinitely busy camaraderie. Biology is physics:
sentiment is quarks. Everything’s a spinning whiz: whirling like
spaghetti twirls on forks: proximities in endless overlapping
families of probabilities and permutations of exacting essences
of star. We like to think we’re taken care of. Perhaps we are.
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