Shagalicious

The slithered shadows trailed my shag rug, in the foothills of the upright weave of flaccid threads. Seemingly chaotic, yet made out of pure design and memory: From the hands of its maker, rolled into the flatness beneath its buyer’s feet. Asking “why” looks for the in-between, vast as forever. The math: A hard one and social, but still a math. More of a psychonomic-politecology. Our bodies are just the same—moving pieces that pretend to be in a vacuum. We aren’t in one, but surely under it every so often. Pieces who poise in passing places and people; pretending preponderance, betraying imposed predilections, to the preferable exposed. Psychobiophysic microcosms invoke the such of a macrosomatic glob that is the everything, at least on this atomic chunk. And so forth, And so forth. The gibberish in the rug is a cortex, and so are we.