All Possible Objects

On the table top, and in the barely dark, dry and not imposing any urgency.

I looked at marbles today. Swirling lake reflections of spirals, cat eyes, and occasional small bubbles. A white background of no consequence, pushing through the imperfect glass. One marble chipped here or there. You touch such things by rubbing a thumb against the angular flat outsider of a surface. Leibniz, all making possibilities, as the glass clack gulps in unique bounce vibrations, echo through a human chest (following fingers that pushed the sparkling marbles against one another).

Not so much the marbles, white, and glass, but rather the ever more delicate sponginess of a bio corpus dei something or other, natively said. On the table top (as though they could have been marbles in a different contrast) against a neglectfully polished black background. Light twining like the intention of thought escaping beyond one’s skull. You touch such things by this intention but there is no more escape than there is skull. Patience on the tongue lasts for millennia; sometimes I look at objects without intention, though am content, for as long.


Addendum: Just noticed, in writing this last night (it came in the midst of writing something else, where it just didn’t fit) a phrase from the other writing seems to have crept into this. Why does that feel reassuring?

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