Paint by Numbers
So here it is: the imperceptible blastula, floating through the jetsam and flotsam of a fecund womb. Here are the son cells, dividing, forming the roots of his future self—everything so carefully planned and yet nothing really determined.
Or is it?
Maybe his life is already known, already printed there in some unseen blueprint of a newborn soul—cellular mutiny, age 29, suspended thought, glacial stare in the fluorescence of alien lights. Metastasized youth.
The nurses are kind.
The bathroom is cold.
Our days are numbered, ephemeral.
Filed under: Blather on June 22nd, 2007
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