Afternoon dialectics with the reincarnation of Max Ernst

I imagine that we are both fatigued, yet you have removed yourself and reappeared more than I have cared to count.

We look at each other as your legs dance.

Are we both pondering the pleasures of the dream? Recording the patterns of the day that are manifesting like string and vibrations.

Do you know what it feels like to be Andre Masson? His drawings never disappoint,

but I admire your frottage.

Is it wrong that I wear blue shoes to give me a sense of what the sky feels like?

Jean Arp painted the bottom half of his house blue to give the illusion that it was floating.

Aren't we all just pertaining to an existence that's intangible, a feeling that's transcendent?

Like putting a mirror on the face of a dog,

to give a feigned sense of our unmitigated loyalty.

We are creatures not designed with the capacity to improve.

Are you listening?

Well, forget everything I've just said. We only surround ourselves with the people who are most similar to us, and tell me, what company do you keep, if you are not content with yourself?

We were transient symmetry only three weeks into existence, with three hundred cells between us,

yet you are so content with idling away the world on my sleeve,

with all the fervent poeticism of Camus, without having read a single word.

We should all replace our heads with mirrors,

so we can see how stupid and blind we all look,

longing for the feathers of birds,

but emerging with the wings of flies.