objet d’art

February 21, 2007

Today I am a small, spongy, iridescent objet d’art. I am a found piece. I once nestled between the sheets of Tracy Emin’s bed, waiting for her warm body, but she never returned. I was lucky to escape when the gallery burnt down.

I was stuck with gull spittle to the shell of the tortoise that Charles Darwin petted in the Galapagos Islands. He wiped me on his trousers and I reminded him of the finches back home. He brought me back to England; I missed the island, its warm body.

I was accidentally dropped into the workings of the satellite that the Chinese government recently shot down. For several years I watched the cosmos and drew my own conclusions about the nature of things. Some passing aliens took pity on me, as I reminded them of the finches back home. They talked to me for hours, about Tracy Emin. I nestled between their stars.

I was lucky to survive the explosion.

Sometimes, I am the thing you did not order on your pizza, but today I am a small, spongy, iridescent objet d’art, just soaking up impressions. I am a found piece. I never meant to reflect anything.

endlessly

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