Imagine being a house painter of a distant age, several hundreds of years ago. And having someone with a psychic bent now run around your graveyard.  That someone sniffing the very few residual molecules of your trailing paint, getting dizzy-high, realizing  that you were once a house painter.

 

How many extant chips of the fine paint you once lavished both interior and exterior decors with yet adhere to surfaces?

 

The running psychic imagines a few chips here and there.  Peeling.  Scattered.  Gone.

 

Might it have been better to be a pyramid builder?  So that at least some appreciable remnant would yet remain?

 

Or an artist?  So that your work would have a better chance to fare longer in a museum or some appreciating collector’s home?

 

Most of your brushes never survived you.  You never survived some of your work.  All is no match for time.

 

tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow…

 

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“The early bird catches the worm.”

 

Yes, but the earlier worm avoids the bird.

 

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yesterday (5 miles), and the day before (5 miles), and the day before that (5 miles)…

 

(the runner runs, the psychic punks along.)

 

Ask you what you may.  Where to?  Whence from? 

 

Enjoy the exchange on the multi-direction, omni-dimensional cosmic shuttle.

 

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But I thought I heard the painter remark just now:  “What a fox!   I’d fuck her.”

 

Really?  Is that possible?  Do you see what I see?  (shall see, just saw?)