I keep looking at things, trying to see where they came from.
God is in the details, they say, and what god is in these details? A blossom-embossed black leather wallet, fading at the edge where it folds; the animal that it came from, but parts, then waste. Bits of paper, scrawled with notes on utopia and post-modernity; trees, sawn and pulped, no longer life-giving. Newspapers: more trees, from where, where, where. Plastic wrapping: a solid cocktail of chemicals, with everlasting life, no matter how infinitesimally shredded.
Nature is separate from man, so goes mechanistic philosophy, which is only so old. When I see these things, I don't see the rivers and clouds and dreams that have been fouled, perhaps irrevocably. I only see things, things that I have wanted, things that I thought I couldn't live without.