ø 22 mm
There’s not a filth. There’s not a fifth. There’s not a time. There’s not a separate piece. You touch that coffee mug, you’re touching the tangerine at a lunch table in fourth grade. You’re touching the tip of the last NASA space shuttle. There’s not a keyboard under your fingertips; there’s an oil slick on the pooling tide at your favorite beach spot. From the tips of your fingers, to the salty oiled water, to the shifting sand crabs, and throughout the sand to the sea crashing on the warm shores of Iceland’s southern Vik.
It’s a wave; it’s a particle. It’s a wave of particles, from filth on a windshield to creamer lightening your coffee, to collective bargaining in public school brawls over budgets. Over budget, our movie is projecting. Light’s a motivator pushing the jiggle in that Jell-O salad you didn’t eat at the family potluck, or Thanksgiving dinner, in 1999, or 2006, or 1988. Jell-O. Others ate it and incorporated the jiggle, spread the jiggle, birthed the jiggle onward into the night. The night, which is always there opposite the sun—behind the sun and in front of the sun—nestling its course with necessary dark matters. The embarrassment of failure. The grump of sixth period hunger and restlessness. Or the awkward online work conferences, when you suspect breakfast is caught between your teeth.
But it mostly alights the same—all right? Because your voice is a bark, and the person sitting across from you is a bee. So, shake off the childhood lies of individuality, enter 42b, and lick the screen. There’s not a time. There’s not a separate piece. You’re at the beach, walking in the unknowable whitish foam. There’s not a filth. You’re on a fast train to Tokyo. You’re helping to start or you’re helping to disrupt a revolution in a city, in a country, somewhere else. There’s not a fifth, only infinity.