diametrically ovenbird The almost prism of the door’s cut glass throws a spear of light onto the floor—a luminous body with one red hand and one blue, stretching outward like a child pretending she can fly. As the spill of photons seeps into the carpet it leaves behind the spreading stain of a story: we can’t understand a thing without its opposite. Heat means nothing without the sting of ice held too long in the palm. So sometimes I stand on the shore of a dead cerulean sea to make it easier to find your living pulse—a point of warmth that draws my face towards its radiance, eyes closed, until I’m shivering with something other than the cold. 260729 what's it to you? who go blather from