On Stillness and Turbulence

At the still axis of revolution, about which our tortures churn, the pure and toddler self remains, present and young, uncoiled, unlearned. Such that a top, spinning, poised gyroscopic on a point, traces a path on a floor, spiraled to the delight of a child's fresh gums attentive, must wobble in the end, must with... Continue Reading →

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