John got me two Vasarely paperweights for Christmas, and I spend too much time watching them. Occasionally, I take one in each hand and fly them through the air as I zoom around the room. There’s no way to stop them, even when they’re sitting on the worktable in front of me. They’re not alive, I know, but the little glass domes can hardly contain the insistence of the colors and patterns, the blur and the sharpness, the real and the impossible.
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