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she is several floors above i rise in fits, narcoleptic dashes, the purpose forgotten and then suddenly remembered the waking mind stirs, sees dream rumbling and swirling about, puts its eye to a newspaper, asks the dreaming mind -- “what’s the paper say?” the dreaming mind is sure that it says something it’s a newspaper, that’s what newspapers do pressed, dreaming mind looks closer and the black lines dance like an ant hill, no letters, no meaning, just shapes shapes thus crippled, the dream folds away i find her, she regards me with bitterness and answers my questions (no words, just desperation) with shapes no words no meaning
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One Color Pollock

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Poor Quality

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