What I was maybe trying to do all along.

AN IDEA OF IMPROVISATION AS THE PULSE IN COMPULSIVE PRAYER

What’s the difference between chocolate and any other desire darkened? Or pray tell which dark longing preys deepest in a casino—those giant shrines to Apophenia—where a guy wagers by probability and therefore can’t be addicted, but still seems to crave the rosebud lips of a brown-skinned Incompleteness Theorem who dips to serve him dissolved spirits? Not only water moves in waves. Is it the Vagus Nerve which makes the octaves of chocolate in her skin weigh as a wager on jazz harmony in the music hall of his mouth? Who knows if the phattest asymptote is Objective Reality when Schrödinger’s Equation has imaginary units to echo the superposition of hearts or when no door except endorphins opens our hunger to rotating numbers? Are these Arabic doors & numerals mascara black or lipstick red? Is this the part of the arc where Schrödinger’s cat appears black as a clarinet strung around Rahsaan Roland Kirk’s neck? Or where what’s needed is to kneel every night and thumb her name in red as a rosary? If you’ve never wagered and lost it all, you might get why a choir means to gather, but still not hear what it means to hymn is something closer to erasure than absolution.