Wednesday, February 16, 2005

When identity is recognized


When identity is recognized
illusory, then models become,
at best, bright and fleeting distractions.

So what are we to do with this
intelligence? How do we play this?
Perhaps a memory will prove luminescent:

The front door was open.

A breeze fled the outside, and, once, the existent electricity became my distant cousin. I had asked, dancing, the past evening for a storm to keep pleasant personalities constrained, but last night, arguments dropped from the tree inside my apartment. Each burst on impact and filled me, and perhaps you, with a lovely fragrance. You said, “Ethics aside, I’d still do it because it’s such a fun game. If I ever get caught, I’ll respect that.” Later, I was told that our party was very Russian.

I’m curious—which is more valuable: the above memory, or when I tell you, now, that my lip is cracked and bleeding?


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