“Maybe it was the strange opaque dwellings of the ancients that gave rise to their pitiful cellular psychology. ‘My [sic] home is my castle!’ Brilliant, right?”
Zamyatin, Yevgeny. We.
Matter… the brittle bones of mammalian vainglory. Yet, too, undefined, some illusive master beyond the material. Matter… shed leaves and plastic bags dance windblown synchronistically. Matter… right down to interchangeable parts. The baby born of ochre, the clockmaker’s child, hands hot with corpuscles, hands craft gears of steel, gears engage the clockwork child, the baby born of ochre. Common iron, separated at birth, gloat into rival progeny. Frail is the life trivialized by that of artifacts. Shed leaves, contemptuous of plastic bags, ignorant of the cosmic winds or mechanical turbines behind their ascent.