Single lines

can be strummed


a whole,


in repetitions

a chorus

reverberating long after

a source

can be traced.


Single lines

can cut,

dealing out pain

in shivers and slivers,





every in-between

of the once placid.


Single lines

can rise-up,

up towards the light,

reach out

furtive tendrils,

see themselves

aimless and open,

wandering out,

where there is no other

but the self.


Single lines

can be nothing,

can be everything,

can make claims

beyond their stations,

can bring us far,

further than we can fathom,

can bring us right back

to the beginning,

conjuring our existence,

so arduously,

the dust of a void.


Text and images by M.P. Baecker, © 2017

Photographs taken of wire sculpture on Montjuic in Barcelona


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