Thursday, July 14, 2005
Striated grooves dug into thighs, hands pressed in waffle iron, syrup poured on flesh, no eating, just waiting. There is a Cosmic Chicken that rules all events which are pre-destined. This Chicken has no will, no body, but is a pattern of chicken, a pattern of accumulation of vibrations and waves. We will share speech, fuse with each other, and find intervals that belong to neither you or me. The verbs come, and one action is replaced immediately by another. This is our link to the world, although we are hiding.