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blood vessels

I have 60,000 miles of blood vessels. I think, to make them count, to really honor that mind-numbingly monstrous amount -- I mean, imagine tens of thousands of anything  working and winding through the unfathomable magic of limbs and appendages and brainblob -- well, I've got to do what I was meant to do. I think it's tough to figure out What You're Meant to Do, but it must be the cosmos slipping you a note when picking up a guitar in your office chair melts away the Teams-call-AI-summary-induced crick in your neck. On the edge of town -- my town and yours -- a family -- and their 300,000 blood vessels -- wait for a knock on their door. What are they meant to do? And how could anyone be meant to do the knocking?
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flicker

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we are stars  looking for ourselves  in a thousand blinking pixels 
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beginnings and endings

"And I'll know my song well before I start singin'" - Bob Dylan, "A Hard Rain's A-Gonna Fall" Charleston has been locked into a kind of paralysis -- tonight, sitting on the brink of a rare snowstorm. Devoid of wheels and feet, the roads and sidewalks are just what they actually are -- grey plaster. The bravest finches -- foraging and flittering just yesterday -- are now nowhere to be found. This little corner of the world is quiet, bracing.  I've been quiet, too.  Maybe no more. Mary Oliver would leave pencils in the trees along the trails she'd walk, so that she'd never be without one. Little invitations, reminders. On this, the first day, we see more clearly than before, perhaps, that there are no first days.  A hidden pencil writes:  Of The Empire   We will be known as a culture that feared death and adored power, that tried to vanquish insecurity for the few and cared little for the penury of the many. We will be known as a culture that t...
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