A light orchestration for the right to pleasure.

When the establishing shot is a memory

derangement asks for a companion.

Waiting all day with the camera already set up,

the self poured from fat to cold.

I put my gloves into the hands, every time.

Brushing and sweeping up pieces of a photograph

of something I don’t know.

When the condition isn’t named, it’s missing everywhere.

Brushing up pieces of thought,

a thought sits poorly in its chair.

Thought is the poor relation to consciousness.

Is it light moving across the frame?