The nation is inside, yet it comes from faraway places. The other is a vessel for the hearts and minds of the nation, which senses the other’s arrival. Transformation awaits in the dust, at the ground level. To become a part of the nation is to become human, to become human is to become like a white heliotrope. Ownership of the nation outweighs the sense of self, your self sensed by you, which is now a sense of ourselves, as sensed by those of the nation. The sun sets on the senses of the other, its essence is miraculous and then divided, paled out. To sense the objects around you, to sense your temperature change, the memory of the nation, its traditions, the socially constructed state of sensing, divided within itself is to sense the horizon of the nation, a flag which does not travel, but rather performs, diluting the refugee state of all under heaven.
