Apr. 28th, 2015

proximoception: (Default)
Eyes that feed the machine: what you bite pours out your toothless lack of lips.

All that you keep is a film from one side, weighing less than an artichoke's wax.

Fine for it. The machine needs proof that the island has moored where it wanted.

Knows that that is enough. It will do the four things that anyone does where the colors are right.

Colors have weight to machines, materials none.

It's this we mimic in watchings, in rumors, tales.

But for us the weights shift strangely between colors and materials.

Till suddenlies when what's felt is also seen.

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