when the tree fingers touch the winter blue
open, and the cold is as hard
and recalcitrant as
our minds, we
appreciate the ludic

fallacy that a game’s rules give us any
indication of real life. we know
it is make-believe that we
have mastered anything
based on experiment.

the cost of play is overconfidence. the cost
of play is a shaken soul. our own
wintry death is
certain and yet
we do not predict it.

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