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CECI N’EST PAS
This morning the skyis a painting by Magritteas it is most days, no titleCeci n’est pas un ciel. The birds rise fromthe wetland as Escherwould imagine them,the small wetlandonce a place thatmight be painted byMonet on a day whenhe cared nothingfor water lillies, but nowa jungle of Gauguin. We wait for the returnof the flocks…
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SPACE(S) TIME
Interstitial time locked in a rent in the continuum. Space is bent in on itself, a temporal Klein bottle. Inside the event horizon Shroedinger’s cat is compressed until the purr of the naked singularity can no longer be heard. The Escherian path winds slowly across the Königsberg bridges crossing each once until the twins are no…
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an old writer and his words 