Knitting Myself Into the Algorithm
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Knitting into the Algorithm, into Infinity
Instagram insists on red light therapy, a pink plastic eye mask that glows like a ruby-geode inside, Zorro illuminated and self-conscious, afraid of aging. Each fissure chips at the issue: I am un-afraid to die. I am just kidding. Death is a blind date, sure as Emily’s carriage is right on time. My small dog took her own ride six months ago, was picked up by eternity. Her atoms have a kind of immortality. If matter is never created or destroyed, each
Instagram insists on red light therapy, a pink plastic eye mask that glows like a ruby-geode inside, Zorro illuminated and self-conscious, afraid of aging. Each fissure chips at the issue: I am un-afraid to die. I am just kidding. Death is a blind date, sure as Emily’s carriage is right on time. My small dog took her own ride six months ago, was picked up by eternity. Her atoms have a kind of immortality. If matter is never created or destroyed, each
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