at night with only a street lamp sliver of silver light coming
a small spot in the blinds, you’ll get just a silent
shimmer of art, some “ghost art”, perhaps a snapped
of a shapes sharp edge, or perhaps a samurai streak of a sweeping
curve, or perhaps a pleasing and faint faint halo in light lit
wisps and light lit edges of shapes and of textures that
go dancing about in the pattern of ‘the grind’.
of the light, from all over the room, the shape I ground
into a sheet of metal leaps out and into your eyes. All of the
billion scratches each taking on it’s reflecting job and
reflecting it’s own ‘billionth part’ of the
light back to you.
This is all part of ‘the plan’, part of ‘the
tiny scratches cratched into shiny metal.