Prologue
Today the air hums in reversed direction.
Orange drips from the mind’s edge.
I hear the color before I see the thought.
Pssst — says the left eye to the right one.

Body I
New law: all faces must think through their fingers.
Each touch edits a memory.
The index becomes philosopher,
the palm becomes parliament,
and the thumb writes silent manifestos on the chest.
Blue gravity pulls inward;
thoughts fold like paper boats on red oceans.
No one remembers who painted whom.

Body II
Pig asks: “Do humans also oink when alone?”
Color answers: “Only in ultraviolet.”
I nod, but the nod loops —
a Möbius gesture of maybe and again.

Dada Break
Oink—blink—think—clink!
The mouth opens, grammar escapes.

Closing
The laws dissolve.
Only listening remains, violet and infinite.