From Panopticon

The sense \’sen(t)s\ of being – alive a captive – as one dares enter into emotional contracts beleaguered of a future return except the trauma of a sensational harvest. To what end is a stone field plowed? Purloined fruit, the strangest boughs twisting through the cell’s quadrangular similarity while light draws shadows on the eyes of those to be seen. The collective’s separate fantasies dream of curtains to separate them from their presence.

the senses – as an open grave of lillies