נוי הוד

ive made a flowerbed, and the voice is in my hands

I see the movements of the butterfly wings moving the waves with the wind they make, and these are one-time moments. The remnants that remain at the ends of the streets retain in the content one last touch, one last movement. The forms are created by themselves and only left to imagine in the content. Coincidence is a given. And gravity. The movements that are saved show me a paperless truth. So they remained as they were. And I collect in old bags, the same remnants that become buds of new life. As in incarnations. As in rounds. The cycles of the days, and the cycles. And I take and wrap them around the tears for unthinkable random windings. Lets the movements come out to be formed into what they are. A world where order is born out of chaos, where chaos feels like home to the naturalness of things.