listen to Bach (and die)
there is no landscape but a row of black I totem poles absolution dogs us in complex fugues played on a mole's sleeping belly mad frogs wearing unreliable diapers augur a couple more dimensions in which we thrive like ferns in giant forests (we eat the lumens) and keep patenting that impossible is nothing
In my mind I have created a garden populated with insects who don't bite and birds who don't shit on my paper when I write there is a lily pond, with frogs who know Bach However, they keep quiet. This is my refuge where nothing pierces through the surface every ripple is merely the smile ...