I'm turning twenty-four. Right now everything has come to that, and then in one applied theoretical instant tomorrow this That will pass by my eyes mid-blink into a space at the back of a socket. I will curse at what feels like a stray contact. Then a little bit later in the day this looking-forward-that-feels-something-in-back might confuse sensation and sight, when the irritant pocket of potential and past that's lodged behind my eye pinches a nerve and I swear I'm seeing a ball of blue light, a creation of the mind to cover the no such thing as a tickle in the middle of my head.

Dreaming that night the immaculate blue ball of light will dim and grow hands, feet, a dick and a face and glib, "Oh so now you recognize me?"

Fuck revelations. ----- I sit up in my bed and blink (disillusionment, can't sleep,) and on the inside of that blink glows the ghost image of a metamorphosis (blue ball of light to biped). Ah, silence said magic and one way or the other believing is seeing so a little bit dry-eyed but contact-free I'm seeing a million wondrous things.

a thought about paintings: potentially their backsides remain the same so that everything else can change, in full sight, chaotically, unabashedly honest in metaphor and biography--this brush stroke is how I've lived my life, one might say--or in other words, the inversion of a face with all its sensory orifices projecting instead of taking in. The unnaturalness of a priori is relegated to a place on which my eye never rests and couldn't care less: the socket, the structure, backstage.