at the screen will my mind just wind down like an old clock? Is there some hidden string wrapped up around a spring in me that whirrs and clicks and propels me as it coils back up after the long pull of some far off anchor? What was that anchor? Some finger, tugging, making a stilled self stutter back into being, since being, that pernicious infinitive, its continuity built into the last three letters of itself. Being.
A kind of redundancy, in that. Excessive structure for a society circumnavigating the guts of experience. No one peering into the marrow. But instead, march round about the outside bounds and call it non and done, all that’s within. Not seeing the spectral center of the orbit is the annihilation of the very gravity that pulls every object in that orbit of discovery along, that in the beginning of motion, in the beginning of motivity, there is a space in which only absence can create demand in what is otherwise full, sated, static: and so the hidden black diamond of the horizon sits in that hollow handle of that long string, dancing shorter and shorter as its motion surreptitiously and rudely halts.
So from emptiness, drawn:
So with emptiness, compelled:
And to emptiness, returned.