Cordoned on at sea level we see the pictures disentegrate, falling off the edge into kaleidescope powder puddles. That’s when we see the subtle arrangement of the cosmos projected vividly onto domes of washed correction fluid. It oodles up and down my spine with an intricate knowledge of my body. As I break away from all this wrought emotion and try intently to be completely content, riddles from the future are pushed backwards in time and taped all over me. I can now read my body and along each muscle is a punchline or an exaggerated sonnet of the perverse. As I walk, the light is punching at my suggestions and people for miles around me are staring and poking and prodding and mocking and laughing.
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