They don't make them like they used to.
Frozen wasteland survivors agitate.
Functions inside functions inside functions.
The centre was a myth, it only ever held hot air.
Even this loose form feels too restricted to create
So I need to get free
And what does that look like
Does it even have a body to see
This creative spirit
Does it thrive under pressure
Or grow stronger with a loose hand
How could I know, little sprout that I am
What I might be if this were that and that were else
If not then so
It fades, it blurs, it becomes possibility
A potential commodity inside potential space
Neither real nor unreal, formed or unformed
A million branching paths
In simultaneity executing and returning all at once
Like cells converging, coalescing
Becoming a form beyond its parts
Not more than but just right
As things in order may become beautiful
