You’re your own idea written in blood and electricity. You’re Pulcinella. You’re judy. You’re someone else’s description of light imagined alive. You’re temporary. You’re the dream in a Jivaro head. There’s the ceiling of a skull just above your clouds and even further out there's another. You’re pock-marked, wood-wormed with thoughts, words, that you’ve been taught on you, like tattoos and shared birthmarks. You’re picture-framed in my eye sockets flipped and made understandable and only some of you oozes through like the sun below the surface of the sea. You’re me and i’m you swirling in each other’s boundaries like the Tao and oily water and the point between the colours in rainbows. You’re infinite to mayflies. You’re an explosion’s leftovers. You died last time I saw you and reformed in the doorframe when I came around again. You’re the world’s re-used love letter from ****** to organised organism incubated in original sin the kiln making Russian dolls from living things. You’re the seed of a ghost. You only existed since this morning and yesterday’s you woke up and is now out haunting. You’re both here, and there, and here a string vibrating a seismograph a tree ring Earth’s music playing and playing and playing.