Rattling pipes. Fridge on. Point one milligram psilocybin. The brain is flat. The pointy end is not pointed. No point. Surrounded by clay figures and not people. One cream colored lady climbs the green-blue block continuously, startled. She is just one of my favorites. Another is the couple in the corner I’ve placed on a malachite table because the green compliments the rusty red of baked stoneware. They are Vladimir and Estragon forever seated and arguing. One has a broken knee now bandaged with gauze, torn and tied with itself to hide/heal the break. He’s the one who is gesturing, pointing with a bony finger to the outlying interior of the dynamic between them. His companion regards quietly in the French sense of the word. Head turned toward him to listen completely. I wish I had such a thing. I don’t have it, so I made it out of clay. The better to look at it and regard it also completely forever until it breaks. Malachite came from forever. Now it sits in my living room holding up my wishes. If a sculpture lands on a table and no one is around to project their wishes on it, does the object mean anything?
