A window looks beyond its moldering facade, with shutters painted hues of folded and crinkled indecipherable skin, rusty bolts for eyes, thrown back on its hinges...and the wall around it, bricks footed with thoughtfully mortared stones, and umber earth with green bulbar storks peeking through.

In one of the wall's niches, whose masonry assumes the figure of roots, Sasquatch thinks:

Next to me terminals calculate the divisions of someone else's brain, human, I think, in a move toward my never imprinted mind a friend of mine who had seen a drowned person felt there was a connection between drowning and the tattoos. The markings of the pintados, he said, were strikingly similar to the wrinkled discolored skin of a person who been under water for some time. Interesting to think of this art as also a means of survival rather than mere decoration or vaulting in directions other than theirs.

Gazing out, "created fully
                in no
    particular form."


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