The imagination bodies forth. The imagination makes a memory. There will be sorrow in a strong imagination. The imagination goes still further. Much is maintained by the imagination. Sometimes the imagination will dip. The imagination is good for calling forth curiosity. The imagination can burn. An animated imagination does scatter. Bea Tatar’s imagination did scatter.


Agnes Belair is no more than a glance over there. Sometimes she’s huge. Come on, Agnes Belair is a woman who is an animal and a little sad. Agnes Belair invisible like a breeze. Agnes Belair blinks, breaths, is around—and the answer is: no. Agnes Belair knows how to hide. Agnes Belair lives in a reply. Agnes Belair is moving. Looks at herself upside down. Looks at you upside down. Agnes Belair, the writer. Agnes Belair, the one without words. Agnes Belair, who fails. Who fumbles. That’s right: Agnes Belair commotions. Agnes Bealir is tired! Is still. Agnes Belair the small stone on the windowsill. Agnes Belair is lonely. There are all these markers of time. The significance of the sky comes to mind. Agnes Belair is thinking about death. Agnes Belair is feeling pain. There’s the concept of a chorus. Agnes Belair is still her. Agnes Belair wanted to finish something with you. Agnes Belair is grieving. Agnes Belair is going to say something. Agnes Belair doesn’t say anything. Do our secrets always make us lonely? A canary in your sightline. Agnes Belair is not a photograph. Agnes Belair draws Agnes Varda 100 times. Agnes Belair is being carried on a glance. Agnes Belair is blown away. Agnes Belair by the ocean.


A sudden strong wind is real enough. Enough to knock Bertrand Browne down. That’s enough. A hoarse raspy kraaa, a harsh crr-eek, clear whistles and bursts of warbled notes, a fast series of tseee sounds descending in pitch. The song ends as a trill. Bertrand Browne doesn’t know what this means, but that does not detract from his pleasure or displeasure. The condition of the noise spread the news like a context. Anything from which something may be learned Bertrand Browne loves like night falling over and over again. Loves like exaltation. Without looking Bertrand Browne describes these scientific experiments. Describes a plant in which growth stops because its growing point is damaged. Like when hail hits, he can do this. Bertrand Browne recommends the pursuit of special knowledge as the central goal of life, though it is typically depicted under the governance of forces of which we are not aware. Hopefully Bertrand Browne can balance on what he does know. The head always had something to do with the skull.

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