I have eyes all over my brain, rolling in slippery ooze pockets. They see things, as eyes do best, such as in-camera effects and the difference between freshly picked and ripe bananas. Suffering mysterious pain, they shut themselves down, a closed sign on the door, and wanton creation is stricken dumb for the night.
They are the key to word geography and topography, type flowing effortlessly as output from their interpretations. But only when they allow. Moments such as now, when they wince with disturbance, not visual but physical, the ear is the epicentre, no product can be manufactured or attitude opined. Just excuses imparted.