Gloïne

The day looks like the taut, smooth skin of a fruit that in a small catastrophe the teeth crack. I barely exist in the world and if I exist it is with delicate caution. The world has no visible order and I only have the order of breathing. I let myself happen. The world is a tangle of shaggy blades of grass. I want the deep organic disorder that nevertheless hints at an underlying order. The secret harmony of disharmony: I do not want what is done but what is tortuously still being still being made. I do not want the terrible limitation of those who live only by what can make sense. Not me: I want an invented truth. It suddenly occurred to me that it is not necessary to have an order to live. There is no model to follow. One is. I am. You are.