Thou has made me the end of all things, and all the end of me. To end is to conclude or to purpose. “My end is my beginning” proposes that my purpose is to start my engines and then put on the brakes. Separate that desire from an adoration of origins, as if they were unsullied land, pure in their lack of contact. Contact me on my cell. Cells are ends to a means, the tiny houses we assign those who do us wrong. My head is full of them. I invite bees in to make honey; confinement can be liquid sweet. Highway through which renewable cells thread like wings of a stage, or over which hang small roofs of solar cells. There are cells in the blood, but also in what we adopt, a place inside the place apart. They course our veins like rubber ducks in the canal, bobbing for charity. Beside the canal, the homeless raise their tents. They too will be razed by the city. Its hive mind cannot conceive of sight as benefit or balm. Abstraction keeps us safe.
--6 May 2015