Alive on Pluto

A sheet of silk
A slice of silver paper
Perfect glass at one atom’s depth
The wing of a bee between your index and thumb


It feels as pure as the 0, with 1 being and only ever being the exact opposite: unconsciousness, non-existence.

Death.

As flat and smooth as the side of a sheet of aluminium paper, and its binary counterpart the underside. The left to its right; the light in the darkness; the silence that gives birth to sound.


Maybe it’s one of those 20th century post-modern paintings – only one or two blocks of raw colour – by one of those American names who has a load of canvasses in the New York MoMA. I remember a special sharp blue and it was a square.

See how it lingers in the back door of the mind, like an anonymous, faceless bringer of information.


Sometimes if I’m lucky I feel the sheet flutter in my hand and I have the power in my fingers.

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