Baby Watteau —

The empty sale window is closing and I’m on the move (or we are). Early or late, the sky’s not falling as a point of fact. Watteau flows like a dancer / stripper in spirals. Another point, harder to verify. More blessed, Baby’s greatest came early; Cézanne was late. These data still matter, in a manner of ungainly small talk — I’ve found someone else, deeper in, a thinly veiled version of a fossilized Cézanne.

The flow is hard to describe — an infancy of a higher up, going blind. Perfecting for a fall. (My baby traps me.)