He sings, but not as you or I sing. He sings like the stars. He sings like the world, like all the worlds. He sings every letter that was ever anchored and bound to any and every thing forever. Untroubled, unfettered, and unchecked. Beyond and before.

There is a photograph of the Apollo of Piombino that is different to the others. It is a black and white image that is lit, shot and cropped in such a way as to outshine and overshadow the object in front of the lens. This Apollo's eyes are not vacant but eternal, he looks out in all directions and with every particle of his being. He is at ease. He is complete. Omniscient and yet oblivious, utterly and radically indifferent, the shell and semblance of a man.