[ w/ bright green large format dot grid & black ink ]
we begin with environmental rests until the ground absorbs us, until we pigment and wing. a stain is what nature discontinues. we see so leaky our words fail. we’re kind of waking. we’re studying our leaks, no seed or directive, no matter. the individual gets their measure: even they strand. even they pulled a bell shape in the grass: a bell’s song never singular. the weather ready to flap. we don’t always evacuate but when we do we open pen-side, pigment continues us. we are product or root, no other options left. each root has a bulb and each bulb barely comes back each time. there’s the pressure we tend to ignore and then there’s how we tend what’s compacted.
dear individual,
we’ve begun to sing you this song
its tune is liquid, its art unsterile. it has no genetic basis, the tune that carries carries you, you heave into the air your bell & the air agrees, we all agree.