I sit in my room tracing a bowl of figs with my eyes.
The light of the aging sun bounces from the building across the street separating the figs from the wooden bowl.
Dust pallets the furniture, in this divided house of faith and reason.
The refrigerator clicks on, the exhale of the ceiling fan.
This feeling of safety derived from the knowing, that the annotations of daily life are dependable.
That the path and appearances of the sun the moon and these things are predictable, yet I'm staring at a bowl of figs. I am not so different from the, "ignorant and superstitious masses" as Galileo called them. And as I cry out for more light, another part cries out for more darkness. The process of discovery, obvious truths, in this mind of collective obsessions and controlled schizophrenias.
I follow this sleepwalker's, own path to truth.


Sycomancy, the art of foretelling the future by figs.