Intention, a mayfly that hurries and changes its poltergeist colors or costumes, changes its jazz microflora into rocks. Floating between history and mysticism. Something that can never quite be reconstructed in its transparency. The fragrance after an emotion, as perfume of a celestial body, measured with the telescope of reason. Going to but never quite arriving at. Notes on being a bird. Thinking less of flight than magnetic loops of movement left here by geometric myths. Differences multiply as sound waves leak across the radius of an old teacup. How we reinvent it later with narrative. How multiple shapes come together to make it unfinished and unable to finish. The architect died before the structure was built – we live in its rooms, playing games with exposed copper wiring. I do not believe that it can be captured. We chase it with laws and novels but it always gets away with murder.