What is pleasure? The gardener leaning into the rake to loosen the soil, to make circles nested within circles: does he think that is pleasure? And the bell that interrupts the thickly padded silence? If I said monk instead of gardener, does the sense of pleasure increase? If I said the drone of planes instead of bell? Is pleasure the animal panting over its kill, digging into the dead thing’s flanks? And the rush of wind and heat as the runners crest the hill, the sound of what could have been fireworks going off just beyond the line?
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