We stumble our beautiful broken paths finding warmth in clasped hands and tangled legs smiling and crying under blindfolds, a crowd stumbling towards the slaughter. The merciful one, the grand architect, the shepherd peels us from the herd Towards unknown pastures. I will miss your warmth. I will miss you.
You cannot paint the world with a single horse-hair.
Maybe we read too much into brash strokes, seeing only one hair's impact at a time. See the forest, see the trees, see each individual leaf, but also the water that fed the seeds and the wind that bent the boughs. Witness its birth and death, its possible futures, a thousand million lifetimes, timelines, generations, ancestors. It is too much to consider-- the artist must act. And it is always perfect.
12.28.23
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