Elizabeth Clark Wessel Kinesthesia

The mind is tired.
What seems like a fly flies by the corner of the eye.

Someone says toothbrush, but in another language.
The toothbrush has its own language.

Swoosh or woosh.
Something moved.

The walls speak or is it the neighbors.
The walls take everything of meaning.

They keep it for themselves.
My mind is a wall.

There's no truth except from the senses, said the Romantics.
Beyond the senses are more senses.

And beyond that is the land of the toothbrush.
Where everyone is some kind of king.


Back to 45.2