there are helicopters twice a day overhead. i assume the noise sends a message. every time, a single neuron is diverted into ensuring the blades of fascism recede into the distance. twice now, i have envisioned an alternative, which quickly requires active thought aversion.
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the laughter of children, to me, is nothing like a bell—each exclamation forms birdsong, yet already their calls are enriched beyond avian repetition. one wonders if birds are assigned their song, or if each one chooses its own in a coming of age ceremony. one wonders if birds feel trapped by voice boxes tuned for pattern recognition. one wonders if a bell could ever sing the song of a brain. one wonders if every single brain is a divine object.
silent spring—our exclamations form the song of the summer. silence is a ceasing of motion. noise tells us that we yet live, that we vibrate in unison, in harmony, and all the discords between and beyond.
a metallic spring is an alien structure we have perfected to achieve humanlike motion. basquiat drew springs erupting from hands, shoulders, legs, wings—we are not "mere" muscle and sinew. we remain beyond scientific characterization. we know biological pathways like so many star charts—some are thousands of years old. do we rely less on star charts now?
- the stars will never reveal your location to your enemy, but they do read all your fan mail.
- the stars are independently wealthy but they get their teller to launder them some small bills. it's a joke between them. the stars aren't kidding. she isn't either. they fall in love while robbing the bank together at the same time by accident. it wasn't an accident. their friends set them up
- access to the stars is not limited to US military personnel.
- the stars cannot be jammed—oh, but i bet they're fun at parties!
