The More I Read

The more I read the more the world turns and begins turning into a wide mushroom blur. The colors a swish, the moonlight a gobble. The sense that the world consists of discernible images - past, present, future - teeters and stands as if on top of a pine tree. Then that tree becomes a needle and punctures the sky, which is really a soft blanket covering the sole of someone's foot in another time and age. The danger of unreason unleashes neither pain nor pleasure but sleeplessness. Not even insomnia, just sleeplessness. The beautiful fatigue of a cloud that says: as soon as you close your eyes, the world vanishes. The sounds you hear, they come from another time. In the markets, you see people's faces and remember everything. You never forgive. In the dream realm, you begin to see without seeing, find without finding, say without saying. Meat turns into brownstone, and this kind of thing, small and incredible, receives no attention today. Don't shock me again, pal: when I said the ground moves and breathes, I meant it. It was half seismology. And half animism. But it was mostly: intuition.