Bonding

“I want you staplegunned right to my side, all of the time”¹

Glue is a dirty word; a cheap, simple, smelly goo that webs our fingers and oozes all over surfaces that don’t want to stick together. We are all time binders — on a continuum from almost never to near forever. Deep inside everything is motion, prevented from flying into cold, dark, slowness with the grip of electromagchemical bonds, smaller than doubt. Some agents are stronger than the things they bond together, some without the bite to fix something waxy to something absorbent, others so toxic that they eat the things they join. The mass, its elements, at distance, distorting space, tugging on the inert, pleading for a crash, falls in love with gravity.