or is it like a bead on a rifle, a locus of temptation
a jewel beguiling and somehow self-sufficient;
the artifact that is life.
Obviously something is hidden (inside it?)
Is it full of doors or little stippled holes?
What about it is so riveting, so fascinating?
That my soul lingers, almost in a stupor, without going blank.
as I have written:
my mind ought to forsake
the slurry of its madness and
its melancholy springs
Maybe it is that hidden appeal which scripts my drawings or illuminations.
Its a living mystery, and a little shadowed.
oooooooooooooo NEXT oooooooooooooooooo