And if this universe, this one song, wants to know itself –
wants to witness and celebrate its garden of unfolding;
then what would an artist show it?
The missed things.
The mirrors that are passed by.
The sound a moth’s wings make.
Those of the crow, the bee and the shuffling sparrow in the bush.
And why the struggle when the bird calls so softly?
What game would you love to play today?
Who do you hide from?
Who do you seek?
Who are your ultimate fans?
Who is legitimate?
And why do they find you interesting?
Why do you find you interesting?
Because you’re stuck with you.
Because your death unfolds before you.
Because pipes need clearing and you’re the only one here to do it.
Because you hear the wings of many birds, flies, moths and bees.
You hear the people buzzing around the hive in their cars –
on their walks, in their airplanes.
And those flying creatures laugh in unison.
Another dawn.
All of this – however unclear – is intelligence.
