I saw Apollo at a bus stop. Maybe it was in southern France. He looked away, and it started raining. It never stopped. All surfaces ran, colors blurred, corners rounding. Concrete bled into electric, fluid, porous abstractions, recalling undiscovered monuments of forgotten worlds.
Revealing new kinesthetic potential. Text, texture, context, conjecture. The transfiguration of the present reality and its ascension into moiety. Disclosing the omphalos of distant mythologies, personal and collective, now liberated from temporal chronology. Emerging from the cracks, a sunflower.
