A biro drew fairy lights from north to south. Each curlicue formed in the civil way a natural ball. There is an unforgetting perfection in the way we breathe synchrony — tap — tap — like driving softly purloined motorised moods into the dust, ugh. We improvise a quincunx of expert play til the end of day.
It was an instant commoning moment to moment quicksilver of static, seeing lines where the ball was — like we were totally capable of magic and twangling Keatish feelings of negative capability in the wholeness of being each other — unbeing by a ball, 2% lifted — worldball: better than Zoloft.
As seen in San Francisco!
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