The pinky moon was swishing all
quivering-flanked, heaves, vomits, sniffs her 
vomit, looks to the horizon, sniffs the 
air, standing still, looking, ears erect – She 
was fluttering, falling, fundamentally 
somatic, fanning like hearts; a distant 
name in an exotic and privileged 
setting – Miuccia Prada for 
example – pulsing upwardly post-
metaphysical and if I sit at 
my desk in my big coat it’s because words 
are cold.

Now, the glorious suture or the 
philosophy of the tree. The tree doesn’t 
“have” “a body”. This means when it comes to 
the need for changing, the tree just waits. It 
takes all my art to live beside a tree
with uncaused devotion and the 
abandonment of determinism and 
I am sad.