Everything feels like injured birds held in my hands. Like the snow goose Fritha held. I sit clasping my elbows and shuddering like a kettle with sobs. The light darkens and brightens and darkens again. Bruises bloom like poppies; growing evermore distressed at being earthbound. Falling backwards and hitting the ground, never quite being able to take flight. Black smudges pasted beneath my eyes. So much to do and still not quite knowing what exactly to do. Fluttering about from one place to the next. Cats paws and feet that never thaw. Endless Tolkien by the fire. Thoughts that make me shiver - iron lungs, dragons half-slumbering on a mound of gold, ice figures that melt and die. A bird that circles around a dead man’s boat. A faun turned to stone.
Crystal formations grown by the vibration of Frédéric Chopin’s compositions (2012)
by Tokujin Yoshioka
Gulls take food from travelers on a passenger boat off the Channel Islands, Great Britain, May 1971.Photograph by James L. Amos, National Geographic