Let's pretend that this situation is no fixed point at all, that we can dissolve the determinate with wild thought.
The spirits shut in stone and birdflesh and red dying leaves and the tenderness of worms are bound by our all too regular imaginations. Let's pretend we can let them loose, attending to them by name, loving each thing in its communicable, inexhaustible, useless beauty.
The Flame shows on the praying tongue; the Magic is in our getting lost and singing still.
The City bright with gold leaf and bejewelled with ecstatic beetles crawling for God.
The New Thing: a scorn for category and death.
[A memory: the fag between stained fingers a sword; dark coffee writes out the will on thick white carpet.
Truth is Mayhem here and here it is: the stain on pristine expectations ad majorem dei gloriam.]