The question posed a voluptuous riddle. Were these frenzied silhouettes pole-dancing in black and blue drooling the white slip the sinewy gestures of Jackson Pollock’s dribble? The answer coveted in a cracked glass where crystalline veins erupt like snowflakes fatally flirting with windowpanes. The anonymous physicist found relying on African fractals and reflexive theories of self-similarity (like the infinite peculiarity of the figure 8 ) that these calculated drips were indeed, not authentic.

these three remainders you, me and her are the legacy of simple math and boolean logic, not so much we have lost our ability to add and multiply desire sliding slowly off the tail end of X crossed paths in a cradle of American comforts so many plus signs weighed us down there is no magic in subtraction a solitary horizontal bar where nothing stays, at least for very long this foil between us I lunged from the left you two repelled, siblings parrying behind Prospero division is our only function anemic lines squeezed between fecund dots expecting no friction…