The future is one of place devoid of race. A jawbone under a sock is a geological clock.
The plunking of rain on the termite-riddled windowpane: reading a Bible on that ledge is a tiny college.
A Galápagos tortoise is killed (or, simply, unwilled). The Ebola virus weeps, or retires, because, like us, it tires.
Meanwhile, below the subbasement, a Suede Revolution: the phlegmatic skill of the cryptographer soixante-huitards the teleprompter.
The id in facsimile is suspended on a leash, twisting in the rain above that goddammed windowpane.
Being is slightly corrupted by the Thinking that’s one-upped it (like the pun on pain) and will never love again.
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The Future Is One of Place
Brian Kim Stefans (B.1969)
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Graphic - Maxfield Parrish 1870-1966











