so the pot calls the kettle

Come in from the cold, that first breath of transition from chilled starlit air to the bruised seepings of a dusty furnace seeming such a revelation. The gifts of culture excreted so clearly this once, electricity and gas heat at a finger's beck. Much of the labor of living spread through vast conspiracies and layers of cunning machines. The blood so imbued with intent that it spreads its hungers into the landscape and the mantle, bleeds shine up into the firmament, reaches for every bone it may break towards this ancient sacrifice. Life ekes by and boils on, but the ghost binds its tinsel to everything that is. Warm this coincidence of flesh upon the cusp of all these penny-ante eternities. Thread the needle of meaning with every held tongue and spent word.

Life is that wished for kissed constantly in the act of consummation. It is the wreck and the reef, the eggs offered up to the greater truth of the omelet. It is the plaintive note sustained despite the direction of the song, the beauty of the song in how it changes while it stays the same. Life chases its tail, it races the moon, it lets us drown gorgeously inside it for a time. But it is the soul of motion, the rapid transitions that birth further change. The distilled wisdom of existence is always pulled in every direction at once. These words are seeds, nurtured only by more sentience. Reflection is always ultimately a kind of weather.

This is not ink, rather the idea of ink reinterpreted. A kind of stage magic where the art and the truth are known by the depth of the shared deception. Just as words are not letters, language not symbols but the simplicity of breath itself. That the universe acquired the mirror where before there was only light passing through matter, that the stories have compounded and become more stirring, these are only natural for the speaking beast. We refine our notions of settled questions, create arguments where there is nothing but the world. It is silly and sorry, sad and devastatingly beautiful. Red blood and blue veins, singing songs of stars long ago shed from the icy sky. These brittle gifts, these gleaming boxes bound to break. Lean back and linger a little longer. Feel the warmth, and watch the lights as they change.