crash
the surgeon approaches herself on the table she touches her arm and it's all transcendental electric impulse flowing but you've lost the touch, she says, for art in all the hard paternal tones, like she had reached the wrong way for a hob, or forgot right from left while making up, all artists do, sometimes, like she had reached through a twisted mirror for nothing or no mirror at all like she took a wrong turn at the modal interchange and crashed into tension, now a tangled mess, her bike on the table in the next room over and oh, she says, my distance for soft pastel, and resolution, and now she draws in those midnight blues draws in for more mass and flexibility self-improvement, she wonders, but how do you draw in a more open eye? and how do you know you have it?
other things said
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