a broken line is an almost circular life. almost, its beginning and end connected by a three digit line: reaching up it exceeds life, reaching down it touches upon a four digit line — or is it the other way around? anyhow, it is a line starting late in life, old age wisdom perhaps: clear, it knows how not to overstep its boundaries. only on one side it does, the side once set by the bottom line: a line hiding in plain sight, above and below the others, a line that is the reason why one takes sides in life.
a line makes sides possible, as it is a side in itself already. you need at least two points to have a certain punctuation, a certain rhythm, and when connected they
become a line, a line that is not flat. maybe the infinitely small points that compose a line are not on the same plane, maybe they sequence with each other at different depths and punctuating each other, they form rhythms. maybe a line is a sequence of rhythms, closer to a song than a flat note. and a song, is already a side, as it is that song and not another. and songs, like lines, fade away, they are forgotten, they stick, but above all, if you look close, they vibrate.