Shorn

Grins pasted to our faces on the usual days are, by that compulsory minor twist, manipulated to sheepish dashes. It is strange to think of it. Last year here, right here, you were standing, sitting and lying just beside. Just beside. Our moments were shrouded in hairiness. We posed involuntarily all the time. It became subconscious I think now. Like the first summer rain seeps half into the soil, and half evaporates back up.

Where did so much of hair and hairiness go? And where is the tidiness gone? How couldn't we ever bloody guess. In communion with animalism, we felt safe and wild; we sought shelter from the brewing storm on our dry riverbeds. And then the waters rose and a flood carried us away.

Now it's a binary chromatic situation and it looks peaceful. We are becoming mannered. The becoming is a transition I don't admire any longer. Why can't we not-become? Why can't it be still for a moment?

It is now still for a moment. It is now. It is now. Is it now.

Now.