A border, a lining, a lattice-work screen of a knotting of flowers. A frontispiece, an introduction, the frame around a portrait, a pleasant decor. Drifting through a state of meandering contemplation in an enclosed garden. A turn of the page, and a brief trespassing scent of rosemary. Beyond these grounds lie the fallowed fields, silent for a millenia. Here, along forgotten paths, scythes rot in the shade, while flowers curl up along their souring blades, producing the most delicate and ephemeral of tapestries.
Weight. The problem for an evening of thought of an Archimedian nature. Smithing it down into a question of what to devise.
Gravitas. A furrowed brow, a heavy heart, a heart of stone.
Lifting. With little effort. Minimal exertion. Spreading out the surface area, reducing the friction to a barely destructive warmth, a warmth initiated by an ambitious hand.
The pulley, the wheel, the alternation of direction to create effect. Down, up, the warmth, but never contact. Block and tackle, a distancing device, a dead erotic machine.
Colossal, the silken curve of the pillar, introducing weightless historical space between columns. Temple, an inhalation of mass in an atmosphere that is both sprightly and morbid.
Hook. A loose means of fixing the bulk. Arrogant and careless, the hook.
To whom do I assign the hand, the load, the block, the hook?