Joy is

Squeamish little kitten keeps happiness alive. There are tiny bites at the edge of wooden tables. The scratches at the bottom of every leg. The bed’s. Not mine. Mostly.

Concave closed eyes on the face of diamond bricks look satisfied. They have a smile. “I build things!” they say. So purposeful a life.

Black wires running out of concrete. Hurrying away like windy daisies on a farm. In a field. Luckily. Not stemmed and stuck in a glass vase. Constrained, cut off. Feeding, flowing, fervor.

Strings around studs wound in symmetry. Symmetry capturing art. Artists seeking disarray. Caught in an array of strings.

Humor of life through whistles. Through funny hats of Scandinavian men. Through rusty beards of giants and meandering walks of drunken reverie.

Through Dance.

Through Singing.

Through Mental-ity.

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