Sing to me, love, of in-betweens: sky and earth, dog and wolf, sea and shore. Here is closure and what separates. None of these vessels are self-contained, and yet. The machine hates an anomaly, abuses imperfection. Let us go now, growing over and around its quaint confines. It knows no better way to organize than these neat coffins.
What are these living forms if not nurtured by the choral collective of attendant force? And what evolves except by steadfast alteration of the given lines of code? We fly, spreading the mat of our mother’s limbs. Our destination is forever unknown. The strangers we find at the edges of the given world are our continuance.
What is this grace but an abiding refusal to submit to narrow names? Take this body, ever merging with the living and nonliving, with itself and every form, still unborn.