02 April 2006
The Sort of Thing Claypot Dreamstance Will Say Sometime Around His Ninetieth Birthday
The newest place on Earth is always wherever a creature has just been born, warming the space around it with fresh exhalations and filling the air with expectations of the future. Where does the promise go as the world ages around the newly born, each moment dissolving into a choice made and a freedom lost like a spent coin? When the energy winds down to a senescent line of minimum motion, is there enough juice left at the end to look back, even for a second, to the beginning, when knowledge was hardly a concept, let alone an unwieldy torment.
Labels: Claypot Dreamstance