In something like a synaesthesia of elemental qualities the air can turn
into a solid like an epoxy hemisphere around a leaf, while solid objects
flow from one instant to the next like melting wax.
Or an enormous
arm reaches out of my chest and grasps the sky, crumples up the world as
best it can in its open fist; or my body shrinks and clings like a tiny
limpet to the side of my visual field, my larger self.
It doesn't
make any sense to say there's nothing new under the sun and that only the
combination of things changes; things are not combination locks, are insoluble;
they don't all have little hands and feet they take out when your back
is turned, and faces like those you make out in clouds or in the rocks,
and speak in a language you don't understand and yet is familiar as if
you made it up yourself, acting out a story like characters in a myth which
is not yet finished...
shmoetry
Surrealism
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