All around are the pretenses of change, like Osiris waiting to be reborn during a grand countdown – broadcast to the fanfare of firecrackers. Garbage mounds up; packages are thrown out, but their expired contents still remain.
And Orion’s gaze finds me once more, despite the myopic skies, saying, “Let’s flip the moon again, as we’ve done before. Then we can look with a new heart and spleen at the opening of the mechanical horse’s mouth.”
Recycled Thoughts 