The world completes a metamorphoses. A constellation, a rhizome takes root in time/space. Every point is, after all, connected to every other and every act sets off a chain, unbroken.
Piping down the valleys wild, Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child, And he laughing said to me:
``Pipe a song about a Lamb!'' So I piped with a merry chear.
``Piper, pipe that song again;'' So I piped: he wept to hear.
``Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe; Sing thy songs of happy chear:''
So I sung the same again, While he wept with joy to hear.
``Piper, sit thee down and write In a book, that all may read.''
So he vanish'd from my sight, And I pluck'd a hollow reed,
And I made a rural pen, And I stain'd the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs, Every child may joy to hear.
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