King / child's illustration
Jumping into unstudied situations.
The fire flared up and fell – no one ran to catch it as it slid down the sharp incline of the hill destroying the gold that was so very hard to conjure. The flame powerfully snatched treasure in the mundane calm cycle of consuming, melting and defecating, leaving the left-behind to congeal into a big unrecognizable mess.
The simple rice bowl was broken and had a void that was never put together again in just the right way. There was a tiny chip missing that kept it from being mended properly. That negative space is now filled with gold — the perfect metal, the solar metal — to heighten its history and beauty.
He saw through the walls of fire with the intensity
of seeing something of great interest.
Even thought the other room was held empty,
of thought or purpose.
Picking through the fuselage she found a memory that was waiting to be unwrapped. She could feel the sharp edges under the charred swathe belying recognition. It had been abandoned long ago; hoping it would find a new place to rest, finding a home far away form the originator.
Like an ancient Egyptian, I spent the mornings drawing a likeness
on the inner soles of sandals, and so, throughout my dayI symbolically crushed the enemy with every step that I took.
That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!
Thou art the ruins of the noblest man
That ever lived in the tide of times.
Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!
Over thy wounds now do I prophesy,--
Which, like dumb mouths, do ope their ruby lips,
To beg the voice and utterance of my tongue--
A curse shall light upon the limbs of men;
Domestic fury and fierce civil strife
Shall cumber all the parts of Italy;
Blood and destruction shall be so in use
And dreadful objects so familiar
That mothers shall but smile when they behold
Their infants quarter'd with the hands of war;
All pity choked with custom of fell deeds:
And Caesar's spirit, ranging for revenge,
With Ate by his side come hot from hell,
Shall in these confines with a monarch's voice
Cry 'Havoc,' and let slip the dogs of war;
That this foul deed shall smell above the earth
With carrion men, groaning for burial.
- Marc Antony /via Shakespeare