163 OSEIN (proof-of-concept animations from PolychromeText)
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https://www.instagram.com/p/CGkb7RqHwgb/?igshid=65z6e3h60q2u7WELL SEE ABOUT THAT (proof-of-concept animations from PolychromeText)
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https://www.instagram.com/p/CGdzPAqHJ4u/?igshid=1iho5cz0o2xj42
The change of the rains that day was an act, a measure of suggestionsThe passage of the air through the trees shaping waves, signals in flow and fluxAnd in that cast and coolness she lies, drinking a thousand subtleties of green into her eyes. Woadwaxen silver, fox grass and sugar balm, apple, corn and honey orchid swell and rise, and none of this, none of this is in want to me, and none of this, none of this is lowly to me. Every nuance, all narration, all of this sublimity.
Sometimes the bleeding is uninterrupted. Sometimes the grief is ceaseless. Waste after waste, forfeiture and squandering, blackout, nerve deafness, forever treading, wandering. Tracts without energy, a private way of cold concrete, the path of least resistance, the crooked ways homeward. Will you suffer me when I’m gone? Will you mourn for my love? No, because I can be supplanted.
I can be spent and consumed and swung, I’m only a little, I’m undeserving of the chance, and I am your danger. Best stay away from here, my dear.
0– To Iole.
There are six biscuits in the box.
She gives one to each child, the eyes are bright for this unexpected luxury.
“We were in need and not used to cookies,” my father remembers from the pulpit.
She keeps one for herself and leaves the last one in the box, “For the first poor
who is going to knock at the door.”
She was no saint. But still, my grandma.
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