It called to me by reaching through my skeleton as if looking for a kite string or the ecliptic of my fingerprint. Processing bits of blood or dream through a system of rivulets on the microchip. The once private encryption of an arch in the cheekbone, its intimate geometry opens a Cartesian door, which embodies the difference between this thought and its extension. Are we still made of language? The perpetual complexity of flesh, its wilderness of centerless particulars. Oft I glance through the entrails of the database, how it joins on a scrap of conversation or the quantification of experience. Can we still glimpse nature framed in an aperture of digits while our portraits flow through underground museums? Still the rough moonlight of your skin hides traces of the world.