Scanning the table for the horizon and discovering only soft, puffy things or smooth, giggling things, or silent things. An axe, a concrete porch, an immense beast that pulls a plough. The Earth itself is upturned, tripping forward under its own weight. A snorting, bellowing, unevenly proportioned, ultimately gaseous and indeterminate thing. And with that, the wind lifts in the garden. The dark streets, the gentle surf, the twinkling lights. I had planned to write of hardship, but hardship leads nowhere. No amount of suffering can be safely assembled here. Instead I notice a long yellow extension lead poised at the top of a vacuum cleaner box. It has not collapsed into the box. It has not abandoned its sense of coiled resilience. Instead, with its multiple curved horizontal lines, it suggests an intemperate patience. If nothing will take coherent shape then let all lines be drawn. Let the spine of reality itself be sketched. Let the viscera that flows from its absent stomach become food for the poor.

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