Manifold

Shadows of the coniferous tree move across the extending tuxedo and tabby cat rip blinds covering the living room window. The distant streetlight courts epistemology into a vignette of needles massing on twisty branches of imagination. What I am witnessing is an image of simulacra. A hollow of sleep existing as if it were awake. The shadows move upon the blind whether the branch is there or not in this moment. Maybe there’s no such thing as inductive reason. Maybe what’s behind the curtain isn’t there until I witness the manifold through the green spectacles of concepts.