The world postures for itself, and a painting is made because
somebody was afraid not to paint that day. A poem gets too colloquial.
Somewhere, a composer scribbles in a 'fortissimo' for no good
reason and at 6pm TVs cut to the ruddy, cannon-hit body of a child.

My brother and I do not know which one of us will die first. We talk,
seldom, and live far away from each other, but we laugh on the telephone
when we can. He asks questions. The world practices for itself
what it does not want to face, so a sculptor pretends to throw

her clay for fame and power while her husband sings of her creativity at
an office lunch. It's a Chinese buffet where the server smiles and
hands him an ice-packed Sprite when he asked for Diet Coke.
His co-workers wonder if the man will tip. The man wonders.

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