Point was a point. He had no mass, thickness, or real measurement. He was, as the definition goes, a position in space and time.
In the parlance of the day, Point or Max could be identified as existing at the intersection of two or more lines, vectors, or intentions, such as two people–one named Jane, the other Jam.
Jane leaves the house at nine on a normal morning, 72 degrees. Jam puts her coffee into the holder, turns on the car. It’s five after nine. The sun cuts her head into two halves. The bottom half of her face is submerged in shadow.
Or two nations. One of these nations drives its population in one direction, the other into many, like marbles dropped from a box onto the sidewalk. There are good days in both places when people identify falling stars. Night clouds pass over the city roofs like dramatizations of uneasy slumber. Leaves shake like hard to read words.
Jane stops at Point or Max or some other arbitrary point along the way. Jam sees her and she also sees the street light. Jam waits. Jane considers Jam’s hair through the window, how she would look or feel with hair like Jam’s. Jam smiles. She wonders what it would be like to have grown up like Jane, with that hair and those lips and that orgasmic car.
Moments later Max reaches out, touched by his implicit emergence, for he is moded by complexity, an immanent matrix. He is not height until another point appears, unwidthed until inspired by volume. A name is an intertwingle of vectors.
War is collision. One people wants this way, it wants clarity; the other is hungry for calendars and wealth and can do okay with ambiguity. Jane powers down. Jam reaches for her sunglasses and departs the car, and in the vortex of honking in the street, they meet and kiss.
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