My old motorcycle helmet has shifted toward me this morning. Moved, as I recall, to create space for a plate. I wonder why I leave the helmet here. It should properly be discarded. I also wonder about the tiny yellow specks at the far end of the table. They are like inexplicable geological phenomena. I imagine that they have descended from the heavens – a granular dust. The cause is less mysterious. They are the residue of a meal. Crumbs of bread and flattened bits of salad leaves. Precisely because they are so small, they too cannot properly remain here. I will wipe them away. The table is a surface, a thin layer of wood suspended some few feet above the floor. It must retain its integrity as surface – as a smooth, flat context for other things to collect. Only objects of adequate scale may subsist here, not miniscule stuff that confuses the relationship between surface and discrete, identifiable conditions of being.

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