weather patterns have not found a way to communicate clearly. perhaps one day the sky will be able to write words. I hope that day never happens. don't we love how mysterious and ambiguous the weather is.
the lacquer that rain wipes on the ground makes light restless, makes the constant lacquer on my eyes dry.
rotation is a simple joy.
suddenly is a very slow word
the ridges of the brain increases surface area. real flatness, actual flatness, is an illusion. everything, in its most rudimentary state, is curved. I have never experienced true flatness.
underneath everything is something else.
what wonder I would be under if my eyes had gap enough to create a reflective space between my eyes and my mind. the camera has such phenomenon occur within itself (but without consciousness). when I hold still and look at the sky I see protozoa, the closest experience to a glare. little wonder that my glare reminds me of single cells and not glass.
where is all the lap art. we spend a good deal of our thinking time looking at our laps.
it takes a dead flower to make a plum
water elongates light on occasion. either that or it does it constantly.