Map.
My relatives are vectors. They do bronze with flourish. I live in these clothes. I walk across the street. I sketch my autobiography. I flow with radio Shapiro. Are you listening to your beautiful self without me? Pry all you desire. I'm still this statue over here to your defiant over there. And when our hands join some TV will gather up the probability of its recurrence. Then what?
I have no spatial feeling. I go someplace and it's the same as here. I try to taste the silver that seems just like mine. I mean the stainless steel. Which war? The tin foil. Maynard G. Krebbs, right? I sit here and it's someplace I have walked to. For what reason are we not identical?
I mean I can talk to you regardless of your declaration of singularity. My own, your own, her fantasy of being one, at one, just one self left to seem a spoke spawned from a single hub.
What sparkles sun makes possible. A posse of near neighbors comes to us with some facsimile of birthday (singular). Everyone was born at once. You see? You dig? You feel esprit de corps? I thought that margins had a bridge to safety in them. I also thought about the work I have sustained.
Resilience is your only option. I grade you on that feature of your grading me. Perhaps you want to light my path. And name if after you. And copy how I cross each bridge hypothesized. And scamper across paths. And think about each one without its name.
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