“ this is the age of rampant computing and of quantitative mania and of search algorithms running on GPUs looking for a person shaped piece missing dead perhaps? but with a digital trace. leave it to the hypertext of imagination ”
Mostly I brush life off my shoulder when it falls gently from a tree, or when it grows from my shirt like lint. Mostly i sigh it away like a laugh from an unfounded joke or a waft of extra air in speech. Except sometimes.