I think a thrips just walked across this page. A bicycle with no seat leaning on the wet chainlink fence, dripping, or a proposal that flowers from the root-tips upward and out, white nervous lace, but I don’t solve those kind of problems. In my dream, my job counting camas fruits and withered flowers combined with Agamben’s account of Cavalcanti’s erotic pneumophantasmology, so that we were looking for seed-heads that contained a love potion or something, but discovered that some plots had been sprayed by an evil scientist to prevent the fruits from growing. A weird cold rainy day. Redwood I never noticed in the corner of the yard. Another gloomy pale day. Dare matter on.
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