night.
night.
just follow the lifeline. trace it with the tip of an index finger, reaching your wrist. not stopping there, a touch like a breath against a forearm. it is night, and the light of the moon comes through the slatted venetian blinds, falling over all and luminous. i can see eyes, the rest veiled in the sleep of the earth.
sit, my hand slight against arm, legs crossed and knees touching. the moon falls through the window and the silver lays across the floor. light lines bright and cool. in the distance i can hear oceans.
i think, it has come so far. to this from those first, those now sublimated into the feeling of fingertips against the pale underside of a forearm. breathe in sharply, deeply, a pulse so strong, felt through a caul of skin.
out of the corner i consider the moon. a pale disk consuming sight. its light so perfectly framing. led on to strangle and imagine becoming entwined, sharp and descending like a spiraling star. it brushes against the fear as i lean in to whisper.
eyes flash against the silver-white-blue of the moon, and lay back for a brief moment. like standing stones on a beach, reflecting the pull of the moon like the sea against the sand. smile, though we are invisible to each other and nothing now but across the air.
it is still night, deeper than before. gathered a blanket of cloud around itself the moon gone to sleep for now. some hours later eyes open, stare on the ceiling. we are so small, really - we are so small but we have something so unfathomably large.
dreaming of silent telephones, of red grass waving around brown ankles and sleeping horses on their feet, a wash of deep slumber. the sun brought me here said in whisper by an unfamiliar voice. light a match and burn away the tarpulin and scaffolding, and you can see the real world clear as day though how clarity shrinks in sunlight. and sitting on a raft with someone whose features are shrouded, floating on a sea as black and deep as the spaces between stars, drifting into something.
sunrise over the blue fields of dawn, night's blanket swept away and now the grass dewcovered shines. the eyes twitch open and closed like frantic moths, blinking the oilslick sleep to the corners of the eyes, where they will gather as crumbs. awake for days finally sleep and wake. circadian rhythm a simple thing destroyed so simply. my days ache and my nights escape, like rain running down the gutter to the cold iron grate of a sewer drain. i am not used to the sun anymore, and it burns like electricity.
like electric. alternating current. electrons streaming, screaming from place to place, such speed and why don't they melt the cables? remember this question and write it on a pink index card which will promptly and deliberately be lost. all questions have answers but few are worth knowing, and it is more often than not the question which bears the weight of significance and consideration. hands across the smooth tableaux of a coffee table that sits next to an untouched chair turned towards a bedroom.
shut the eyes again and they are felt slamming shut in the chest, a surge. swim in the currents of thought believed flight. the greatest good for the greatest number. this thought comes unbidden and as soon as it is there it is gone and there again, only to disappear. what is the nature of thought, that is, the essential questions? what is it, why is it, what is the difference between thought and instinct and how can we tell. is the pain in the stomach a thought, or is the wish for food? is that a thought or an instinct? i will write this on a pink index card.
we all begin to wake having lost the knowledge of our own identity, and our mind, panicking, pulls out all the information stops, and everything flows and do our dreams fundamentally change who we are? how can we know? what can we remember? we are different people day to day, radically so. instincts are lust and hunger and desire, thoughts are love and wishes and weighty ponderance. the entirety of being, the body and the soul to which it aspires, are changed, transmuted, flooded by knowledge of day creeping through the holes in this place, and night is dispelled like a flame underneath the waves.
just follow the lifeline. trace it with the tip of an index finger, reaching your wrist. not stopping there, a touch like a breath against a forearm. it is night, and the light of the moon comes through the slatted venetian blinds, falling over all and luminous. i can see eyes, the rest veiled in the sleep of the earth.
sit, my hand slight against arm, legs crossed and knees touching. the moon falls through the window and the silver lays across the floor. light lines bright and cool. in the distance i can hear oceans.
i think, it has come so far. to this from those first, those now sublimated into the feeling of fingertips against the pale underside of a forearm. breathe in sharply, deeply, a pulse so strong, felt through a caul of skin.
out of the corner i consider the moon. a pale disk consuming sight. its light so perfectly framing. led on to strangle and imagine becoming entwined, sharp and descending like a spiraling star. it brushes against the fear as i lean in to whisper.
eyes flash against the silver-white-blue of the moon, and lay back for a brief moment. like standing stones on a beach, reflecting the pull of the moon like the sea against the sand. smile, though we are invisible to each other and nothing now but across the air.
it is still night, deeper than before. gathered a blanket of cloud around itself the moon gone to sleep for now. some hours later eyes open, stare on the ceiling. we are so small, really - we are so small but we have something so unfathomably large.
dreaming of silent telephones, of red grass waving around brown ankles and sleeping horses on their feet, a wash of deep slumber. the sun brought me here said in whisper by an unfamiliar voice. light a match and burn away the tarpulin and scaffolding, and you can see the real world clear as day though how clarity shrinks in sunlight. and sitting on a raft with someone whose features are shrouded, floating on a sea as black and deep as the spaces between stars, drifting into something.
sunrise over the blue fields of dawn, night's blanket swept away and now the grass dewcovered shines. the eyes twitch open and closed like frantic moths, blinking the oilslick sleep to the corners of the eyes, where they will gather as crumbs. awake for days finally sleep and wake. circadian rhythm a simple thing destroyed so simply. my days ache and my nights escape, like rain running down the gutter to the cold iron grate of a sewer drain. i am not used to the sun anymore, and it burns like electricity.
like electric. alternating current. electrons streaming, screaming from place to place, such speed and why don't they melt the cables? remember this question and write it on a pink index card which will promptly and deliberately be lost. all questions have answers but few are worth knowing, and it is more often than not the question which bears the weight of significance and consideration. hands across the smooth tableaux of a coffee table that sits next to an untouched chair turned towards a bedroom.
shut the eyes again and they are felt slamming shut in the chest, a surge. swim in the currents of thought believed flight. the greatest good for the greatest number. this thought comes unbidden and as soon as it is there it is gone and there again, only to disappear. what is the nature of thought, that is, the essential questions? what is it, why is it, what is the difference between thought and instinct and how can we tell. is the pain in the stomach a thought, or is the wish for food? is that a thought or an instinct? i will write this on a pink index card.
we all begin to wake having lost the knowledge of our own identity, and our mind, panicking, pulls out all the information stops, and everything flows and do our dreams fundamentally change who we are? how can we know? what can we remember? we are different people day to day, radically so. instincts are lust and hunger and desire, thoughts are love and wishes and weighty ponderance. the entirety of being, the body and the soul to which it aspires, are changed, transmuted, flooded by knowledge of day creeping through the holes in this place, and night is dispelled like a flame underneath the waves.