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My pen is laced with the sound of birds chirping in the moist air of March. Sitting on a bench in my made-in-China and Japanese-designed sweater, I feel like a troubled monk. All my senses are still functioning -- I can see, hear, speak, breathe, all my senses are intact. But what isn't working?

Functioning. We never lose our ability to function as a living thing. Butterflies flap their wings, birds sing with their vocal cords, insects move with their wiggly legs...everything works as it should. Or should I say that everything is at peace with its natural purpose? But does the sun radiate because someone told it to or does the cat sleep so that she can excel in her game?

I looked up the definition of apple in a dictionary for no apparent reason:


noun the round fruit of a tree of the rose family, which typically has thin green or red skin and crisp flesh.

The Flowering Apple Tree (1912) by Mondrian

It has always puzzled me how an artist could be classified if he/she does not follow the functional, typical, or Dictionary definitions? Do we always have to be given, defined, and epitomised?


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Where I was born was a planet Round as an orange As I sit in front of a rectangular window Staring into the flurry of sunlight Pouring over white tiles of squares I hear a cat purring at me In its gin

I Know, and I Don't Know

I was trained to care and not to care about certain things in the world And they call that —Knowledge.


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