Nothing Truly Connects
We’re above an endless plateau of cirrus. Look at that wisp of crescent moon nailed to this impossibly saturated blue sky. The moon out at noon. Proof, and more proof, that I’m being watched.
The wolf ponders the caribou and presidium of both frogs and finches.
All creation conceptually pressed together like dried flukes onto grainy pilgrims carrying the resolve of photochemical interventionists.
Two photorealists connect and diverge as the narrative’s historical, artistic and scientific linearities are placed upon one another with enlightening translucence. But nothing truly connects.
Through the fog and supervolcanic water vapor saturating the stratosphere we see finches, cane toads, and poison dart aristocracies working wing by haunch at their various outposts across the world.
It’s all visible from this height. And this must suffice.
What I’m Reading:
Silence is impossible in this century.
Everything howls. It has no way to flourish.
The wild animal of ourselves, this learned condition
growls relentlessly.
— Amanda Hernández / “Noise”
