Yearning for freedom, for a voice, for a time to speak.

Our flags, crisp in the wind, light like the air, light in the air, burn in the wind, flow like the sun, we are blinded.

You creak with finesse, focus with might. You open the waters, shed the metal, and dive right in. What a cold day.

From Cary Tennis about saving face …

Now, what bugs me is we talk about these things as if we really know. And we don’t. And we lower it by talking as if we know. Why do we do that? I think: because we know how much power it has, the taboo. We know how much power it has, so we pretend. We say, Oh, it’s only sex. Like, oh, it’s only God. It’s only death. It’s only the mystery of existence. Like, it’s only the mystery of existence, and don’t worry, I have devices. (But I do have to get up in the morning and go to the guillotine. Just warning you. Sorry.)

… paired with another find on we-make-money-not-art. A Marx and Lenin from Eastern Germany that never got to quite save face. And we say, Oh, that was just a time past, just an idea thought, now over, now history, now no longer us.

A shaky metal dinosaur looms on the horizon. You can feel its silent rusty growl.

Like vapour, I rise, like a mist, I rise, I stand.

All clarinet.