figure_eight raze each loop of synthetic rubber and polyester that holds my hair in place spins itself into a number one step past the integer i most want to see staring back at me — symbolic, i'm told, of an effort to reconcile the spiritual and material worlds, with broken bits of protein jammed between the teeth of the tired metaphor. i don't think it means much of anything outside of this: a twisted thing will always try to sculpt itself into the suggestion of a familiar form. the idea isn't to send a signal to someone receptive enough to make sense of it, but for the object to prove it's more than a mistake built by inordinate tension and the toll it takes. 241107 what's it to you? who go blather from