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for a moment, i choose to see the wind not as an external force, but as movement from within the object itself.

therefore, the tree leaves and blades of grass move of their own volition, out of an independent and internal animation. 

in this way, i vacillate rapidly between a staunch materialist and a staunch phenomenologist.

each object seems to relish the touch of the wind. as do i.


i vow to follow wind incidences.

a tumbleweed, however,  is inextricably linked to the fate of the wind. i think of a tumbleweed getting to experience the touch of wind without being carried against its will. maybe it likes this.

the wind curls its body around my legs, around my fingers, under my nails. in a way, it wants to know my body, as much as i want to understand the context and contours of its dimensions.

never will i know the wind.

always will it know me. 

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