Christopher Kennedy
We’re hurtling along, incomprehensibly, on this rock, and there are many of us, including remarkably small versions of our larger selves. Today, some of us are strewn among rows of shelves in uncomfortable silence, ashamed of our coffee and tea’s inadequacy, embarrassed by the employees’ enthusiasms, and we are forced, each of us, to look up from the book we pretend to read to watch the slow drift, the bright erasure, and walk around in it, as if in seeing past the dull facades we can be brought to a higher place, exalted, the luminous aura of the flame’s shadow we dream is inside us somehow burning a hole through our husks of flesh, through which we must pass to pass through ourselves, impossibly, if we are to do more than simply burn.