We love people and try to see what they see.
We end up with filters, ours, theirs.
Filters full of funny fuzzy lint.
The lint makes pictures, lines, shadows and light.
Our mind wants to make sense of that bubble, connect it to other bubbles.
Our mind says every thing has to make sense somewhere,somehow, some.
We read what we write.
We examine the structure, the movement, the bubble it formed.
We filter that bubble.
And for a while it makes sense.
It lets us sleep, forget, go somewhere else.
Then, doubts about the bubble.
Fuzzy pictures become even fuzzier.
We know nothing, we scream out.
We know shit-quoting my favorite young Canadian.
We know only hunger and pain intimately and well.
We know what's right in our sight of vision.
Everything else, a construct.
Everything else, an exercise.
Nah, I'm here, here, and I've a toothache.
A toothache doesn't lie.
A toothache trumps everything.
A toothache hides other pains.