A crow cawed at dawn suggesting a picture of idolatry, a woman gone to the wall for decorating a living room. The crow cannot be mom to eat rice. Our images cannot eat rice in words. Images cannot eat rice, only words.
We have other images of ourselves hollow men, fleshed out of our bones poor nightly creatures of fluorescence roaming the empty wastes of minds. We have other men with rolled shirts staring from ancient space, not yet knowing my own coming, that meant
his own going from all space in time. There was space only for one of us.
All our images are shadows from past that are cast on our space even after real things are gone except in sleep.