(no subject)
It was some secondary function of what ensures that you can know everything about yourself and exactly what you're attracted to but never connect those sets of facts.
The elevator used to whirl 180 degrees so quickly that you'd shoot out and down into a secret pool of molten bismuth that would then be flash frozen, split by vibrating pistons down the middle and cleansed of most of what was left of you by flares of flaming gas. The mold you'd left would serve as growth pit for scraps of your DNA assembled and scaffolded by cofactorial synthetic flesh amoeba. Upon congelation the assembled guesses of hundreds of far future game show contestants about what the mind of someone who'd behave in that manner on all those scraps of salvaged security camera footage might be like would be downloaded into the cerebral pudding and the faux you'd be sent back in time in a machine made of ice placed just above the elevator, the ceiling of which is a sort of pinball spinning machine metal plate soddered to a rod type deal. When the backtime ice melts sufficiently you fall down through one side or the other. Your insulated foil suit sticks to the magnetized ceiling plate and is spun back up out of sight, where it becomes blocked from spinning back down by another metal sheet that had been leaned against you and fell into place above you upon your drop. You're not even wet, since the timewater molecules can only take their own weight back with them and abscond one by one with building blocks of dead skin and dust across the seconds that it takes for your own weight to press the elevator down on its spring and for that spring to release its compressed force back upwards till you again reach the fourth floor where it all started and where the door opens on the mildly surprised friends you'd left. But nowadays they just leave you there till you grow tired of waiting, hit the open button, take the stairs. After the first few trillion (is their saying) the knowledge you can do it is enough.
Elsewhere in the building there's a crack, about a foot wide, running through at a nearly right angle to the floor, a few feet from where the hallways end, piercing them all like a cut down through most of an apple. Snow falls through it, its whole breadth and all the way from subbasement to superattic, all the time, even summer, even when it's raining, even when too cold to snow. It's a bit past where the stairs come out on every floor so there's no practical reason for us to go through it as often as we do. We got used to it long ago, and the chill is a nuisance. It isn't for the danger as the angle's just off enough that you'd only fall a floor. We argue about this, and most hold it's because no one has this but us, and to not engage it is to risk its being taken away. But we know too little of the intentions of the snowers to hazard even this much, I insist. To fear would be presumptuous. It must be a shower. One cleaning some filth neither seen nor felt. Just assumed.
I've never spoken to her but she spoke to me once. Something erased the words. I didn't answer and became angry with the situation. The silence and anger made her color and leave. I sometimes feel that everything that will ever happen and everything that has are mere ray-lengths of one splinter of what broke between us that day. A splinter passing through me still. The part back with my feeling I'll call past. The rest I could see plain as day if it weren't in my eye.
The elevator used to whirl 180 degrees so quickly that you'd shoot out and down into a secret pool of molten bismuth that would then be flash frozen, split by vibrating pistons down the middle and cleansed of most of what was left of you by flares of flaming gas. The mold you'd left would serve as growth pit for scraps of your DNA assembled and scaffolded by cofactorial synthetic flesh amoeba. Upon congelation the assembled guesses of hundreds of far future game show contestants about what the mind of someone who'd behave in that manner on all those scraps of salvaged security camera footage might be like would be downloaded into the cerebral pudding and the faux you'd be sent back in time in a machine made of ice placed just above the elevator, the ceiling of which is a sort of pinball spinning machine metal plate soddered to a rod type deal. When the backtime ice melts sufficiently you fall down through one side or the other. Your insulated foil suit sticks to the magnetized ceiling plate and is spun back up out of sight, where it becomes blocked from spinning back down by another metal sheet that had been leaned against you and fell into place above you upon your drop. You're not even wet, since the timewater molecules can only take their own weight back with them and abscond one by one with building blocks of dead skin and dust across the seconds that it takes for your own weight to press the elevator down on its spring and for that spring to release its compressed force back upwards till you again reach the fourth floor where it all started and where the door opens on the mildly surprised friends you'd left. But nowadays they just leave you there till you grow tired of waiting, hit the open button, take the stairs. After the first few trillion (is their saying) the knowledge you can do it is enough.
Elsewhere in the building there's a crack, about a foot wide, running through at a nearly right angle to the floor, a few feet from where the hallways end, piercing them all like a cut down through most of an apple. Snow falls through it, its whole breadth and all the way from subbasement to superattic, all the time, even summer, even when it's raining, even when too cold to snow. It's a bit past where the stairs come out on every floor so there's no practical reason for us to go through it as often as we do. We got used to it long ago, and the chill is a nuisance. It isn't for the danger as the angle's just off enough that you'd only fall a floor. We argue about this, and most hold it's because no one has this but us, and to not engage it is to risk its being taken away. But we know too little of the intentions of the snowers to hazard even this much, I insist. To fear would be presumptuous. It must be a shower. One cleaning some filth neither seen nor felt. Just assumed.
I've never spoken to her but she spoke to me once. Something erased the words. I didn't answer and became angry with the situation. The silence and anger made her color and leave. I sometimes feel that everything that will ever happen and everything that has are mere ray-lengths of one splinter of what broke between us that day. A splinter passing through me still. The part back with my feeling I'll call past. The rest I could see plain as day if it weren't in my eye.