• Vol. 08
  • Chapter 11
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It hurts me to see that poor worn clementine perched atop
its world, one thin green arm still holding out for balance.
Its edges are now dappled and rough, each atom a tiny hole,
or else the edge of a tiny hole. The vague wodge of white
that it sits on will not let it fall, but is unable to do more
– it is just pulp, does not feel the heat and pain and glory
of life-cells, of being swollen with water and pressure,
of having been created for a reason, but creating your own,
because you cannot disappear, not even to allow a grove
of yourself to fruit. The dark hunk of dough holding it all
should be the same – just matter – but sometimes, it thinks
it could be coal, feels a fire in its ancient bones and shells.
Taken as a whole, this entity is not displeasing to the eye.
It is abstract art. It will all make sense, when we are wiser.