In the dream, my father nudges me into the race I do not want but need. He specifies the prize, a bit consoling, for the purse, although I prefer less closeness to contenders I would know. Where other than in forests is there privacy? On cool desert land housed in a different season, when the match between sky and its derivatives seem pure. If one insists upon percentage points or parallel relationships, then the tones "100" and "1 to 1" hold true as young harmonic flecks. I think, therefore I enter as an action figure to help prove that I exist. Whatever any of us knows, we keep pretty (much to ourselves). We like the looks of what we know. We inventory qualities in quantity, and measure them or fail to measure anything as confirmation of the actualities. Knowing where I come from means I have the energy to love exactly who you are. And learning the distinction between where I came from and the present tense I wear around the house becomes a kind of jewelry not remotely transferable. One's taste in identity reflects one's love of strings we theorize. One ribbons melodies with pathways that reflect infinity before a choice is made. A tilt seems in retrospect as arbitrary as a flavor. One footfall, silken as the honey tree.
Intentions, same as faces in a pond, a little breeze, and what comes next
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