In the outside there is awakening, in the inside there is breathing, in the evening there is feeling, because throughout the day there is meaning. Because throughout the day there is meaning. In meaning everything is living, in meaning everything is expanding, in meaning there is surrendering, in meaning there is acknowledging, in meaning there is frequency and entirely understood there is adoration. All the ticking makes time and all the energy makes light and all the wheels made spinning and all the crazy made wilding. This makes beauty.
Paranoid
In the S bus, (what could S stand for?) in the rush hour where all the people around watch and stare and judge and know. A spy perhaps of about 26, squinting, heavy, watching eyes, white knuckles, as if he’s looking for me. People getting off, spy getting closer. The spy grows annoyed with one of the men standing next to him. He accuses him of jostling him every time anyone goes past. An alibi for moving so close to me. When he sees a vacant seat he throws himself on to it.
Two hours, 21 minutes and 39 seconds later, I meet him in the Cour de Rome, in front of the gare Saint-Lazare, a sketchy place if you ask me. He’s with a friend who must be speaking of me: “You ought to loosen your grip.” He shows him where (at his knuckles) and why (shooting a look at me).
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