A sheep appears with its head down. One with the proper shading so that no one will ask it to flatten out. I am a backdrop against another backdrop.

Another second into the future, one blade of wheat shifts from obscurity into fame. The future of one blade encodes impermanent immortality. To stand erect, so very near the terminal commanding the aerial passenger ropeway, is to be vulnerable and naked without anyone knowing. To stand. To stand.

The tubular jugular sheep introduce an elegant terror that borders between apocalypse and beauty. Sheep confront this symmetry of political treason with sensible diplomacy. This is to say: wind creates changes when transformation retrogresses into boredom. This yields nothing but monkey Yodas on monkey Yodas. I have nothing to say to things that appear to be not changing. I have no sympathy for a structured delirium, which is what boredom is.

To dance in the wind is to say goodbye to the choreography of transfixed stasis. To dance this way is to understand the flat turbulence of the void. Here, the same image, appearing seemingly the same, from the void into an echo of another void and through our multiplicity of eyesight, inhales one lens of perception without distorting another. We lie like a station wagon in disbelief. Sheep, not removed, not second removed, stir without stirring. Eating without eating. Binocularity reshapes the way we split ourselves into geometrical pieces. Binocularity asks us to fulfill our organic mechanism to the greatest degree of transfixed apocalypse. We take turns turning the wheels that can’t be turned. Don’t ask the monkey Yodas if they have made their next chess move. No pawn can ever understand the clever Queen of Stillness nor tolerate the unobese King of Motion.

Hearts blown apart without departing kindness. Would you know these are the words hidden under the skin of sheep? Masters of today and not of tomorrow. These four-legged walking masters. When the wind becomes slave to the air, who will miss out in the freedom of breeze and gingham? Cotton, article of clothing, and this undisturbed stirred field of feasting. Even five monkey Yodas gaze down and self-pollute the atmosphere. We reshape our energy of despair and collect our magnitude of oblivion. Which the sheep themselves exercise in abundance. If humans emulated such profundity, the wars the humans cast on each other’s souls would disappear. And when boredom arrives, the wars will reappear like these sheep in their mastication ritual.

Hearts blown apart without departing kindness. Would you know these are the words hidden under the skin of sheep? Masters of today and not of tomorrow. These four-legged walking masters. When the wind becomes slave to the air, who will miss out in the freedom of breeze and gingham? Cotton, article of clothing, and this undisturbed stirred field of feasting. Even five monkey Yodas gaze down and self-pollute the atmosphere. We reshape our energy of despair and collect our magnitude of oblivion. Which the sheep themselves exercise in abundance. If humans emulated such profundity, the wars the humans cast on each other’s souls would disappear. And when boredom arrives, the wars will reappear like these sheep in their mastication ritual.

A chasm. The smooth surface of sheep’s back. So smooth and glossy, it could easily become a mirror for the sky. Time devours time on its own reflection. Sheep conscientiously eat. Labor is vitality. Now the neck of the fourth has shifted closer to the other sheep, its furry, wooly head, almost raccoon like. Almost. Almost.

Native Americans love circles, in architecture and in dreams. A dreamweaver of grass and nontransparent sweat. This circle of life. While the third sheep smells the asshole of the 2nd sheep, the fourth sheep, the biggest one, digging its face a grave, provides its face a funeral friendship. The sun continues to shine. Shine with coruscation. With unhurried depth and aplomb.