Lost in Translation

The kinship with those humans who speak directly to me is webbed to the ceiling. An economy of satellites, a cosmos, where revision we think comes without the benefit of our witness. A peculiar time when stars with modest faces sleep in enormity and mirror death like a child’s infirmity that despite socio-economics is still an illness, definitive as fading paint grossing a distant understanding from a stain pooled from its center resonant of some terrific nucleus making sense of its own words with the strangest electricity.