He sits fixedly knitting the air.
Although nothing takes shape,
it does so palpably.
He works with such fierce concentration,
never dropping a stitch,
that the very nothing he is knitting
assumes all the aspects of creation,
except for form and substance.
People marvel at its complexity,
its craft and connivance.
He merely continues his work.
The ferocity of the undertaking
engenders its own reward.
Art may be a delusion plied by lunatics,
but the world doesn't know that,
and the lunatics don't care.
- mce
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