Underneath they're all lovable

The sun pours down incessantly, beating us down with the light of love. It does hide itself from time to time, it seems to leave us seasonally, and yet the light is always there.

Who can own the sun?

How do we get this sense of scarcity in a lecherous generosity?

The sun ejaculates in a continual waste, fostering life born from unintentionally conception, conception without organs, perhaps walking abortions, life unexpected but afterward cherished.

Plants rise in the direction of the sun and then collapse in the direction of the ground. Trees bristle the ground with a vast quantity of flowered shafts raised up to the sun. The trees that forcefully soar end up burned by lightning, chopped down, or uprooted. Returned to the ground, they come back up in another form.

The life that walks the earth need not parcel out the sun. Instead, the sun is everything, and our work is to compare, never get there. The sun makes one thing another, a continual missing, misfire, nonevent, no encounter, a ridiculous yearning for touch that flips, that reverses. We hold the wires that connect, not puppeteers, but run through with the lancing of repetitive life.

Ever since sentences started to circulate in brains devoted to reflection, an effort at total identification has been made, because with the aid of a copula each sentence ties one thing to another; all things would be visibly connected if one could discover at a single glance and in its totality the tracings of Ariadne’s thread leading thought into its own labyrinth.

To write is not to leave a mark, to create posteriority, unless we mean the anus of love, hole screaming to hole, turning around the penetration of the pen into an invitation.