Acht(ung)

     There was no escape.  There was an illusion of escape, a rapidly evaporating mirage, but the detours were merely diversions.  Centripetal force had been pasted on the clock face and there was no turning back.  With increased mass it gained momentum and the fibers were drawn sharply against the grain, as if you ran your hand down reptilian scales the wrong way.  The snake parries and thrusts but it too finds itself subject to the cyclone.  The gods of the winds have exhausted their collected animus and the mundane laws of physics take over.  Magic finds itself beside myth and everyone lines up according to their belief or skepticism.  Can the superstition be quantified?
    

    It's Kandinsky's Kleine Welten VIII and its feeling of movement is compelling; its entropy unavoidable.  We have seen the esoteric signs and have innately known their meanings.  It's a small world after all.