What Is To Be Done

A damn against the motion of history. The mute compulsion of the body. boundaries drawn on the skin:

This wasn’t the first time, no. Half the people in this play don’t even know a god is dying. What are they doing with it? I can’t see the stage. There’s a man folding his hands into a shirt. All the flowers are on fire, and feathers floating down from the cracks in the ceiling.

It’s difficult at this stage in our decline to see anything. these robust claims of certain implausibility. Everywhere a rain stuck to the inside of a cloud. this cloud. here. In my hands. Can I slide it across the floor to you? Can we sit here, dazed in sunlight, and forget about our hands? Can you press me into the earth, deep and rich? If only for a day.