Manufactured Light
Manufactured light. Nothing short of a miracle among the many miracles that we have created— and a far greater wonder than ghosts that still grip far too many of us.
Manufactured light. Nothing short of a miracle among the many miracles that we have created— and a far greater wonder than ghosts that still grip far too many of us.
The dancers have all gone home The score has crumpled to dust Inked rests and quarter notes Now blow as motes Across soundless Saharas As disassembled saxophones wail soundless dirges in forgotten …
Dancing across the ceiling, the invisible footsteps of imagined lovers tap serenades against my temples and I smile.
Splintered light and a cup of coffee. The story of my life— At least for this afternoon.
Shenzen Province. China. The largest migration in human history. Workers. Uprooted. Living in dormitories adjacent to factories. Working twelve hour shifts. Making tomorrow’s landfill.
There are few things on this menu that are palatable to me. It’s like reading the Toronto Sun on an empty stomach. I should have gone for sushi.
Arriving where I’m supposed to be, I choose to keep reading and miss my stop. The stories we tell are often better than the stories we live.