The shape of the universe

Nothing matters

Except perhaps the planting of a daffodil bulb. My daughter patting it into the earth. Its roots coil downward, birthing other bulbs. Ten of them, multiplied. Year on year.

It is said that if you plant a bulb in the ground and leave it there, next year you will have two. Leave them there – and the next year you will have four.

Twenty million, nine hundred and seventy one thousand, five hundred and twenty.

Since Grandpa gave those first ones to you.

But these are not daffodils. They are snow drops. Salvaged from my mother’s garden.

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ADRIA BERNARDI | Sidewalk & other neural networks of well-being

" I have been working on a theory: hypothesis; equation; proof. Counting houses. Correlating them with mailboxes. Considering placement of mailboxes in relationship to the front door. Measuring distance between front door and mailbox:  A mere step outside and reach? A stroll to the end of pavement to the street? What does navigating that space mean to whoever is crossing it?"

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