Monday 1/04/2010 01:52:00 AM

Bubbles she said. Half Accusing. The natural response to the release of the vacuum. Worlds apart. A fingertip away. Dead. Alive. All the same. When the universe is kind enough to multiply by obvious affections.

The cork in her grin. Ready to burst with anticipation. The universe in her words expanding exponentially. And I. Just the observer. Changing everything.

The tea kettle on the stove engorged with steam. Asking her how there can be this thing called heat. The knife in her hand. Cutting vegetables and meat. Curious what sharp means.

Bubbles she told them. Not really understanding. The physics of choices. The faintness of gravity. As it relates to the vanity of her struggle.

Empty cupboards train her voice. Pale beds teach her fingers. The forest is barren. Until someone is watching. Nothing is real. Until you are the observer.

Dull pitchforks pierce the bubbles. And we are helpless. Frightened observers changing everything.

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