Thursday, 31 December 2009



There were holes in the world and people fell through them.

Which is a monostich, a poem.

Or 'In the beginning there was something not quite', that is to say, our attemps at understanding begin with discrepancy. And, like a monocyclist on acid, go round and round the hole in the ground ever after. The ground of understanding, as the mystics almost used to say.

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