9th
The jungle writhes nervously with the interplay of the cycles of the elements. An old telephone perches on the lowest branch of a gnarled oak, waves of meaning flowing from the centers of the balanced plastic bowls.
Ever without context, we feel the pull of their history like a weighted diver feels the current. We immerse ourselves, feeling the swell pull our collective core into a gradual see-saw sway. The music of sepia-toned acquisition joy gives way to indifferent utility, which surrenders to fifteen dew-displacing steps from the safety of the home, and the sharp metallic impact of the mouthpiece in its final dustbin croon. These ideas and others feint left and right, weaving and tying sheer threads from seeds of perspective unbound, sorting, arbitrating eventual conjunction onto the front and back of an opaque, polarised silk screen.
There is a tenuous juxtaposition as the slow tick of the indicator seems to coincide for a few hubritic moments with the flashing light on the dashboard. The mind is drawing order from chaos as subtleties fall from heaven to earth, cascading through mirrored and mirroring worlds, the sacred fire that blinds the gross Narcissus of uncertainty and becomes momentarily manifest in the sunlight that filters this weird canopy.
Full for the soul, the object calls to no-one and nothing. Red and green bring the meme to the brink as the witness must decide, or feel the posthumous wound of disharmony.
