I Don’t Know How Many Souls You Have, My Feathered Fernando
The maestro waves his baton1 Emu makes me sing new notes: a diapason appassionato I feel the blood-pain but can’t see the claw.2 Semiotic bird object-coding Barthes’ bliss einfuhlung abates. Why is it to be happy, we cannot know we are?3 Waking with Emu. Your face the first thing I see. My fine, feathered friend. […]