The clock is ticking and the former brands
are obsolete. I'm wondering in this moment
what matters of the medium, the strands
of her hair are lit by the mere comment
of a reader. I've investigated the garment,
its sublime texture, its radiant temperature
and tangible mystery. I feel the torment
of the water on the stone in the literature
of the theologians. I take the mature
leaves into my mouth because the alternative
is unacceptable. The violet curvature
of heaven drones about me in meditative
phrases. This art is an unfolding game
where every artifact just looks the same.
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