Old mother complexity gives birth to ghosts, fragmentary and simultaneous, of oceanic pain and small joy, the planet rotates to hide the sun. No thing is identical to itself. A riddle-song of the philosopher. To hold a stone is to change it and to change yourself. Time is an old problem. You remember the inspiration of trees and poetry. Extracted from the suburbs with billions of circuits and distinctions. We name the constellations after gods and creatures. Delicate lines connect each thermonuclear heart, throbbing with hunger or envy or homesickness. You remember the wine stain and the moment when you realized that you were wrong about individualism. Like a ballet composed of perfect mistakes. We are connected to the galaxy, one another, by a silver cord that is impossible to cut.