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A light orchestration for the right to pleasure.
When the establishing shot is a memory
derangement asks for a companion.
Waiting all day with the camera already set up,
the self poured from fat to cold.
I put my gloves into the hands, every time.
Brushing and sweeping up pieces of a photograph
of something I don’t know.
When the condition isn’t named, it’s missing everywhere.
Brushing up pieces of thought,
a thought sits poorly in its chair.
Thought is the poor relation to consciousness.
Is it light moving across the frame?