Someone took the scissors from the print room at work.

Someone left a passive-aggressive note to ask for their return.

Someone returned the scissors and created a metaphysical dilemma.

Where are the scissors?

Have they ever moved?

Where am I?

What is this place?

How can we be sure what we are seeing is real?

What is my relationship to something I perceive?

Do I create the scissors or do the scissors create me?

Why am I shaking?

photos

Where are the scissors?

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Writing

imperfect

‚ÄčThere is a certain beauty

In an imperfect thing

Evisioned as a perfect map

From an imperfect mind

Some broken state of being

A catastrophic creation

A cup with a chip

A blemished bowl

Some alliterated altercation

Long ago, or closer still

An historic fascination

When this being became complete

Imperfect

When viewed through a perfect lens

Of a perfect idea

Of that which is no longer

By an imperfect mind

And forced to confirm this self

This deluded force

Which sees what isn’t there

And in the absence of perfection

Beauty.

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