What happens when a thought becomes words? Optometry and billiards, obviously, but also Heidegger, Derrida, and anything that clicks. This would include four-dimensional rhythms, huge drawings, the hysteria of mirrors, and operatic consonants. You know? Like pulchitrude. Like a camera giving birth to a snowdrift. This happens more frequently than you might think. Meanwhile the gears pause to charm the honesty of skin among the flutes of the orchestra. It is so easy to be scintillating among words that when it comes time to nail a spoonful of jam to a slice of toast we must first taste the gyroscopic butter as it spins into observation. Cotton is a masterpiece of atonement, wouldn’t you say? And here come some more words, each one tugging at a piece of October, as if to say “isn’t the fall beautiful this year?” Well, yes, of course it is. When has fall not been beautiful? The leaves turn various hues of orange and scarlet as death arrives on the scene imbuing everything with religious sentiments and the gold of pain. There is even gold in a drop of coffee, if you think of gold as a metaphor of metal, a rare ore, a kind of music in the dirt. I also like warmth. A lot of warmth. I like it when women surround me with their arms and tell me I’m more exciting than Mick Jagger. But tell me. Really. How important is art to you? Is it a necessity? Or more like a gallon of gasoline? I think of art as a tornado. A miracle of air, destructive and sublime simultaneously. A giant contradiction. The human mind craves superfluity. Superfluity is a need, and is therefore not superfluous. Superfluity must be superfluous in order to satisfy the condition of being superfluous, and so appease the craving of the soul for something in life that isn’t required but free-floating and dangerous. By that I mean French fries and theatre. The hypoteneuse of Nebraska which is a time in the morning that is always moving and forming shadows in the garden. Anybody’s garden. Because if a hypoteneuse is the longest side of a right-sided triangle everything else makes sense as the detached glaze of a metaphor on top of a thought using a bagatelle of understanding to create the vibrations of a personality. Gold, for instance, or a gallon of paragraph sprawling across a sheet of paper shouting delicacies of morning into the sugar of some newly born words.