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4:43 pm

Espansivo

I remember.  I remember.  That night in the box Michael Gunn gave us, listening to the tuning, its’ own music like feeding time at the zoo.  That clown in box above with his lens staring down into Molly’s dress and she on the edge of her seat listening to me.  Me.  I told her about Spinoza, exiled Jew, glass in his lungs.  Imagine a worm in the blood, he said, a tiny worm that can see corpuscles moving and colliding and rubbing together, flowing.  The worm would think each particle of blood its own part, not a whole fluid stream coursing in and out of bodies.  Just like us.  We are parts in relationship together, part of an infinite whole.  Or we are the worm, maybe, seeing everyone else as parts wanting to be the infinite whole.  Or wanting to be worms. Or a bee.  A bee sing stinging and drawing blood, one corpuscle at a time OW!  And our mind is part of a larger intellect or is the worm that is to say bee listening in to the parts and has to listen again to know it is a song.  She was riveted.  Hardly moved a muscle.  Beestung lips.  I sounded like this: