the weekly maverick, notoriously divine devout to his problems where others are problems and icons are posters ready to be whitewashed by tomorrow’s sterile; history becomes texture under opaque skin. we break the ice with cold feet and leave lunchboxes in the fridge to form leftover landscapes, it doesn’t need to be dealt with, it needs breath and stomach acids – nothing will happen unless you chew. ted has tokens and shows us them in his palm, as if his eyes were there. and our eyes are there. singing songs of veneration and holy auras unbound profound dominated by a thwarting chronology that we time travel across perplexed and disjointed joining dots and discarding doubts into other people’s powerpoint presentations. there’s a little bit of an age gap between us and god.