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 everything 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 actual object in front of the lens. This photograph does not represent Apollo. It summons him.
The voids that are this Apollo's eyes are not vacant but eternal. An emptiness, aperture and interstice. This Apollo looks out in all directions and with every particle of his being. But he is at ease. He is complete. There are no wrinkles on that forehead.
Radically indifferent, this monster, this shell and semblance of a man.