Article voiceover
I’m the curlicue man, all paisley and arabesques; let the broken world come to me. I’m all the figure eights you ever wrote or traced with dreaming fingertips in school, thinking about ice skaters, and how they do what we can do together if we glide. A Persian rug rolls open on the flooring of your mind, the curving patterns generous and divinely soft. It’s not that you are flying suddenly, but that you always were with me inside this big no stopping now, here, I mean inside this ring that reaches out, unfurls, and touches everything, yes here, in whirls where all there is to do is love— Oh, come to me!