schemata substrata mutilata
ave maria & the host of ninehouse
the days there had been strange & even strangely strange, with each day's weirdness different from the preceding one, up to the last. the marked day. one needn't even be told, it was intuitable; the nausea node so pressed even as it begun, confusingly enough. for all the comfort, all the days had been a travail rather than any respite. last days are always different. differently different.
a stiff and solemn conference decorum laid throughout & all the barest thoughts were treated equally, with respect & given dignity. hospitality taken to art, as if sun groves demeanors enhanced in a highly tutored state, as if produced by some refined ancient culture, contrasting greatly to the furnishings of heavy oaken timbers bound by iron clasps mottled and rough, almost pointedly.
ultimately, there was something vaguely wrong in all the good.
discordancy. the painted wood of metal rafters. identical clouds in separate windows. the tranquil beauty of a room belying it's thickly intricate technical underskin within the walls & floors. a subtle sense of the thick electric presence of it, subconsciously intuited. still air quietude without, delicately tasteful, with an acute aesthetic. flowers on the table, a pencil, tin cup. tablecloth. discordancy. it sets you on edge. leaves you wondering. subconsciously.
EMF sanitization leaves a slight tang of ozone in the air...
we picked up our books & canvas rucksacks & split. no celphones, no tablets or laptops. not even so much as a watch or a radio. radio...
all was in accord.
looking back i saw the flowers wafting in the dead wind. i saw the light wisps of black ember, the streaks of lightened color, the girls dancing on the roof, their scarlet scarves hovering frozen in the air for the photographer. i saw too the approaching dim plume down the opposite road.
our road turned eventually. we could forget who filled our bellies and replenished our backs. we could try to forget the programs.
we could only ignore the programming itself. the road seemed innocuous enough -they always do. one can easily take analogs for real. it may well be often the case even.
whatever died back there died the small death of a falling leaf, a burnt out bulb. it was nothing but one node. there's yet a million left to go...