The rhythm is sudden, hard driving. Ashes pile unto my ankles. I'm in the blank, lose count of days, whirl. Living's no different than this. Written characters impel comedy.
Dilemmas pass in moments.
I watch their dance. It would seem that this crack in the mystery opens for me to perceive music, spin. Afterwards, I stare. It's fixed, cast out, on scribbled paper. Perhaps Jonathan Lasker's paintings work out an adjoining field, where he has probably left images of himself for us to wave at.