RITTER/ZAMET presents: Sunshine
Every few years, every few instants, passions stall only to ignite again. There is a heating and cooling system immanent to all forms. Heat is wont to disengage itself from its indulgent sacrosanct forms, and take a walk elsewhere, to a boondocks, a hyperborean clammed-up tabula rasa-ic ur-Ohm bowel-loosing bog. The river Lethe is in the house. But enough people pee in the Lethe to warm it to 23∞ C, and then boom: we have place and status and sensuality again ñBig Time Sensuality.
Usually, along the interstitial pickets between the Lethe and the Fuck Farm, forms* present themselves at their most recognizable. A form as a sloppy rivet, helping to constellate* what hopes to be a brilliant panoply; a form as the morning junk in your eye before the nails of light certify* the retina's seamless beauty. Every eye has its duty to cartography, and the lines it draws can't remain chartable. Each unique amorphous moment a strident temperature soon to evanesce, and to sit. The amount of time spent sitting (then) leaks, auspicious...
*A shelf full of glassware, or a small dusty mercenary army encamped on the side of a hill, or a miracle of baking kelp on the baked sand
Here we have it; Have we it here? a sampling from a local precinct, a study in thermal caprice/courtship.
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