You measure my weight in terms of clarity, so that you may set me in contexts you deem appropriate. You come expecting a limpid bit of prose to give you access to meaning, perhaps even me. Have you broken these words open yet?
Every thing takes on the characteristics of its making. The impressions of materials, moments, masters.
We are what we have been. In this sense at least, our position is not Janus-like between past and future, but human, facing all the past we reconstruct and the future we spy over the shoulder of God.
There is nothing ‘new’ nor ‘pure,’ only that which we think has not been touched yet in this world, that which we hold aloft above this ship of fools.
‘There is no death. There is only, I am dying.‘
There is no finality in experience. There is only the frozen urn, beloved image, and the invisible sex of what is and what is not.