Thoughts in the First

Buildings, and buildings, and more buildings. Neatly, medically arranged into blocks. "Turn right here for the 53rd street", "Continue straight for South City avenue", one voice leads into another. Neatness collapses into more of itself. Walk when the clean white walking stick figure appears on the dark glass box called a traffic light. Neatness merges into order. Everything becomes routine. Spontaneity is a menace.

Inquiries birth more inquiries. Standing on the diving board, they witness their depth on the surface. Carrying an amorphous, unformed abyss inside themselves. Transforming them into the shifting patterns of the surface. Disintegrating every emerging ordered pattern. Every order is spontaneous. Beating inside it is a heart of disintegration. The paradox of a neat inquiry lives inside this heart.