It is about the warmth, it is about the time that never freezes, it is about the pressurizing time, its about my anachronistic neurons, it is about you, it is about the cells, it is about my stupidity, it is about my rich soma, it is about the luck, it is about the moment, about my fear of expression, my untamed shame, it is about the transition, it is about the variance, it is about dissociations and ambivalence, it is about my clumsy effort to format you, and the way you come and you go. It is about not knowing thyself, it is about the imperfection, it is about the unsustainable sense of satisfaction and wholeness. Did I ever draw anything, did I ever choose anything, did I ever hurt you and could I lie anyway. Can't fight the enthalpy and the frightening shadow of Wolffian time behind all this. Since the beginning, I suspected this was about amoebas and flagella.
