By Richard Mather
There is nothing real anywhere, neither
outside of us nor in us. I know of
no being at all. Not even myself.
Images there are. They are all that exist,
connected to each other, interpenetrating,
merging, overlapping, an irreducible
multiplicity of unframed pictures
in movement.
It is a strange dream
making pictures of other pictures,
the image of your mind picturing
pictures, and the picture of my mind
picturing you doing so.
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