Dark anniversary. Still to work in sentences through the moment of PARK at Freshkills following a hypnotic duet by Ursula Eagly and Kazu Nakamura when the realization dawned that, due to contingencies of wind, I'd be reciting an elegy for Taimour from the harbor directly facing the absence at the end of Manhattan. Letting the divisive scrolls whip toward in the wind, letting them go. Aging, deorchestrating & clamping down, disillusioning nine years.

To be in a place, thinking through all of it, that doesn't distinguish between one class of object and the next, but evens everything in the same hypnotic envelope of light: motion forward and survival complex, this not abiding by what's being looked at as a matter of doctrine and edge, but drawn toward by presence itself, in its most general form: wanting only to look at this light—