I’ve been wondering lately about the way the wind whistles through the chain link fence – singing as the groan of tree trunks play bass in accordance, and how there is no chromatic or harmonic to the notes of the song discernible. In fact, there aren’t any notes at all.
I’ve been wondering lately about the way the veins of a leaf carve across my fingers and trace out impressions of trees and lightning and fifty foot men or the way their slow and pondered ramblings defy Euclid. It seems they follow no perspective of figure.
I’ve been wondering lately about taking that box of unused dyes and dumping them down the running sink to count all the nameless colors in between the reds and greens and blues. If there is half of a half and another and another, surely I’ve created every combination there could possible be, but I can’t tell you what I saw down there or felt in the leaf or heard in the wind. I can’t concoct words to murmur music or grow ivy or animate color, or even less, to pry open my skull and hand you my eyes so you might experience qualia through my being.
And so I sit here unable to call out the blood in my veins or the thoughts in my head.
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