In this story,

there isn’t necessarily a motif;

there are things that go around

the edges and are as important

as what’s in the middle.

Sometimes,

it doesn’t level of at the edges,

but rather continues.

 

The life is a pattern.

It’s like an aerial photograph:

houses in all directions,

farms.

It can be like a graph.

Statistics.

It can be like a shopping mall

in the suburbs.

 

And you look at all this hieroglyphics

or women’s dresses crosshatched borders

and you think

if it means anything.

Is it how fish is caught in the net in the morning?

Is it the way we worship?

Is this the color of being lost?

Where does the pattern become a diary?

Or a secret code?

What does it mean – life?

 

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