I can think, but rarely of nature.
I look with my back to the landscape,
As if in a Claude glass.
A cheat code. Ninety-nine lives,
Which might as well be infinite
Unless this isn’t the first one?
Nietzsche said There’s a rollicking kindness
That looks like malice.
I ascribe that “kindness” to fate.
A breeze carries unknown pathogens,
Information that can’t want to die
Because it’s not alive.
What it wants is desire.
A barrier to crossing
The chasm of the day.
