Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

3

The angels align in stately processions across which dark faces beam down, agents of past triumphs and dead kings. There are no lies, only errors and miscalculations.

I am sure I will be accused of shallowness, of not seeing the beauty which lies within all of us. But it is not that at all. It is simply a question of aesthetics. What stands before me is a vision of the sublime, melted down into two points – one to the left, one to the right. I am brought to a halt, breath jerking spasmodically, hands unsure where to go. I can think only of perfect yolks swimming in limpid pools of egg white. It is as if the universe had contracted into a tiny point, out of which shines my vision of the ideal breast; I tunnel into it in order to determine the exact distribution of the primary elements. Perhaps it is simply a question of mixture, then: a little more water here, a little less earth – a slight twist of fire to flame over the vapors now floating up towards the sunlight.

It is after all only a question of purity. There is firmness, but also complete freedom – a firmness waiting only for a stimulus to set into motion ripples and vibrations the nature of which can be nothing other than perfection itself. Incarnate in flesh formed out of never-ending battles and hard won victories. It is a question of principles, nothing more. And within the principles lie motions undetectable, unthought. Perhaps the cold of that final group of centuries, after which the fight was brought to the flesh, which stands against god and nature wielding tools and fire the likes of which have never been seen before. An abundance and store for hard winter months, an allure visible beyond the layered pelts and frosted breath. But even here only a partial explanation, a matter of choice perhaps, nothing more. Or maybe of no choice at all.

I cannot help myself; the truth of the matter strikes a solid blow which I cannot escape except through artifice, trickery and deceit. Bringing me back to my roots as well, so I suppose I ought to be grateful. But it is not only a matter of size, but of fullness. To be full is to carry opulence as a promise and guarantee. The past can rest for a time: the motion, animation, and birth of a thousand dead faces leaves nothing but scattered words, behind which nothing lies but songs and dance. I have no apologies; yesterday fell like any other before, today will do the same I am sure. And all is as it should be; the angels align in stately processions across which dark faces beam down, agents of past triumphs and dead kings. There are no lies, only errors and miscalculations.

The world – no, beyond, the universe in its entirety – has been reduced to an ideal balance between earth and water, solid and liquid, wonderfully alive, spitting air and fire over the sands until there is no choice but to put my head in my hands and weep. It is as if the gods had one day decided to create a symphony with only four notes, played off against each other until even the heavens had to be satisfied with the results.

I want, after all, nothing less than all, and begin to squirm uneasily at the prospect of compromise. The two day forecasts will reveal nothing but what is already known; the rain will be delayed, frost is not expected, temperatures may even soar up into the upper 80's. But maybe I am not seeing the matter in the right light; it might, after all, only be a question of the hard versus the soft – or of no question at all, I suddenly recall, as if thunderstruck. Perhaps then it is time to begin examining the contents of the files which bulge precariously over the edge of my table, and which have gone largely ignored for the last days. Inside are contained heavens which lead directly to the sulphurous torments of the dark kingdom. The only escape is through subterfuge and ruse: to simply bypass the entire procedure, laughing in the face of god and man alike. Forget lost expectations and cold faced combats of past lives. The question is death, and out of death comes the fresh faces of tomorrow's veterans.

What is called for, that is, is open-heart surgery. To pull out the pulsing orb in its entirety and subject it to the most vigorous free-form examination, to the delight and amusement of all around. The question is thought then fades into silent sparks of opened closings and redundant circuitries the nature of which we can not even begin to fool ourselves into thinking we grasp. Not that there is not the most vigorous effort, mind you. And not without some success as well. It is only that the matter does not lie in that gelatinous mass of grey flesh. The chinese said once, and maybe still do, if they keep the sense to listen to themselves, that there were only two centers – the stomach and the heart. The head was considered peripheral at best. And the heart never asks why, or how, when, if, or any other of a ceaselessly multiplying host of unbidden spectators. It simply beats out quiet rhythms against the tides and falling sands of worn beaches and clouded moonlight. And there is no need to say more ever, once enough has been reached.

In every pulsation flows the world: water breathing life into cold matter. Here questions answers solutions to problems never posed do not have time to fall, let alone to whimper off into their respective corners, sobbing with dismay, hoping for a helping hand to suck the marrow and kill the pulse of time. As if I should be the one – I the one who laughs occasionally, and then forgets the joke and buries his face in the sands against which no man can afford to put his bet. The very idea is ridiculous; so much so that it shrouds my eyes, masks the air and dulls the clouds until all that remains is a cold uniformity against which no thunderburst can hope to make even the slightest inroad. The parched crinkles into parchment over which young worms and dark dragons spout glowing embers until finally the whole affair lifts into the wind and scatters into a thousand decaying fragments, leaving behind a maze through which I am surprised I have the time to make my way.

Narrow street canyons and violet tinted stonework and nights better than the stories ever promised, and of course the boredom and despair about which no matter what is said there can be nothing at all. No matter the cost, that is. And still there are spikes and peaks and valleys and one day maybe the mountains will fall completely and nothing will be said at all, not even a murmur. All holding together for the sake of nothing, and out of that nothing we draw absurdity and combat and everything that lies in-between. And I am laughing as well, in-between my tears and the sobs which carry me through the night when there is nothing to say or do and the time ticks by, drawn back over the rack of infinite delay and force-fed lies. All because of some ridiculous notion I might have once held about all words being one, and one nothing but the strength to make it so. And now the battle has been drawn again, the regimental forces shift nervously but do not care, having slowly become inured to the whole affair, waiting only for the world to catch up. Which it never will, of course, but that should not be taken as a discouraging word.

Perhaps, after all, it is nothing other than a question of the proper arrangements of the spermic essences, the active promulgation of which the ancient sages advise us to carry forth behind and before each breath – whether taken as a whole or part is of no concern here. I have been force fed tripe and mealworms and now want nothing more than a half-way edible loaf of fresh bread. Which does not seem too much to ask, when all is said and done. Half a pound of flour, some yeast and a little water is not a king's ransom, after all. And a fresh tired face lined with nothing or age or laughter but lined all the same to feed our hearts, which hear the same song now and then, when we stop thinking about it. And then there will once again be sighs and laughter which melts into heavy breaths out of which nothing funny remains and the world turns once again, then around some more and the days become weeks then months then who is to say and who wants to, after all? Leaving me panting slightly, out of alignment for a flash, enough to fall into, a hole within which to hide my head when the night grows too hot for covers. And how else could matters stand, if not firm, small but formed, laughing but afraid to gasp for the last moment inside of a shot of chemicalled lunacy. It is only the fear I dread, the worlds made small by the actions of the hands and mouth. The eyes turned aside to retain what is already lost, and more. And I am happy to leave matter like they are, perhaps the deception will grow larger, until it garners sufficient force to overcome the opposition. It is foolish at this stage of the struggle to cast shadows and doubts over matters consisting of nothing more than alleged figments, scraps torn out of worn notebooks and assigned to the evening breeze. There being no magic doors or pictures to hide ourselves within, that is. Of course if I am proved wrong the words will be left to drift and the sands will run away with ill-suited lovers of indescribable noxiousness. The world will rerun and the audience will grow a little more bored, is all. Leaving me to wait for the next round – a little more patiently perhaps that time around, a little less inclined to follow the muscled caverns and bloody bellows. Or maybe more, if I can ever begin to learn from my mistakes.

I listen but find only words with no center, undulating quietly in the spring breezes. And I have to smile, the word faucets drip seemingly at random, I wonder whether to collect the droppings but let them fly loose, into the still cool night. I look for nothing now, not even fame. Only to stop and spit forth moments out of the side of my mouth, into waiting spittoons. To revel in the glory of unsung deeds, naked frolics in the moonlight that none other will ever see or hear to speak of. Collected in waiting arms the chains of which have grown pale with fright. The children of the dead follow strange channels whose exact character remains a mystery to me. I have followed one or two and can only report that their functionings can be deciphered only by the select. Not being of that divine species I move on slowly past portraits of past heroes and forgotten kings. In the slightest motions, too small to be measurable lie traces of dogs won as spoils and irregularly sized mascots of fame and fortune. If matters were not so absurd I would follow one or two more before handing in the final product. Time has grown too short, however – I watch anxiously, knowing that at any moment the hands will stop and groan, exhausted and not knowing any longer how to rest. After fitful bouts of guilt and depression the motion will resume, no one the wiser for the missing space. And in my eyes glisten memories against which no amount of worry or strain can make the slightest inroad.

It is within the center I am told but go on to more interesting projects. One has to retain a certain sense of perspective after all when it comes to matters such as this. Across the divide the conquered quiver in their hovels and lean-tos. Their fate is of no interest to me; it is not, after all, as if they were innocent in the affair. They too led themselves astray, if only by the smallest fragment. Followed by the next, and the next, and so on until only death and despair could be heard. I have to admit a certain glee; the battle had ended before it had begun, leaving only the question of how long instead of the if they might have preferred. For once I can smile, knowing that the expression will be knocked off my face with sticks and cudgels of various sorts before I have time to smile again. Forcing me to elude the promised mourning by a hair if that. Within a measure there is no sound, only bars and trouble and the smell of woman.

I can wait, however, and for as long as will be necessary. I have time now – as much time as I need, but no more. I can waste a breath or two, but more would be a crime. I can spin webs and watch fascinated as the morning dew fills them slowly; it is only a question of patience and endurance. To see as a fly, except that this fly knows it will die before the day is over. But also knows that to panic or move in eccentric circles will only defeat the purpose. Washed clean the pure memory form filters out the dregs of time and wasted lives, unsure what to keep or how I look only over cliffs and stones and the empty wine that fills my stomach with longing. The walls breathe damp exhaust while orange men leap nimbly from dumpster to dumpster singing the song of garbage and love. Inside of the walls the cracks join secret factions and listen for gossip and news that might one day help the cause. Tomorrow will be a complete loss, stolen out from under my feet without even the benefit of hearsay or rumour. I wanted to sing too but was born mute. I call out in hopes of only an echo and pour sand out of my hair and ears. Tomorrow the wine will flow red leaving tear stains and empty spaces. Better now to find last seconds dreaming of elephants and clowns strolling across broad boulevards and avenues. Better to stop it all; better yet the morning songs and soft caresses out of which there is no need to spit and polish a lackluster performance.

Inside of the factories the foremen look with anxious faces down at their watches, all tuned to different channels. The times have elapsed well, although they still cannot see this in their rigidly outlined time schedules. There is not, never was, and never can be, cause for complaint. I am happy to see the machines pound new destinies by the hour – I want that known before all, before even the first edition of the morning paper hits the streets. The worried looks are not my concern; they can be worked out by following the proper channels, the inventories of which copies can be purchased directly or through the mails. Transcripts may take an additional day or two, barring any unforeseen circumstances. It is not a question after all of reading or writing, only patience and the love of god. Without which we wither and die. This then is my time; the theft of which is prosecutable by death, and that only if the judge is in a particularly lenient mood. Perhaps the matter as it is given them is not an iota more than absolute sheer audacity. For which I am willing to make an exception and proclaim that beyond its outer edges only the purest vacuum can exist, force feeding mouths that can only cry for lost causes and empty seats at the opera.

Nothing less will do, that is, than constant change, which is a recipe obviously too difficult to follow for even a short while. The key stands firm, however, the only doubt resting in the matter of how constancy itself can alter form. Which remains, I am assured immediately, a matter to be worked out without my interference. Letting slip a part that the union had promised to keep under lock and key, but unions are like that according to rumour. Not that I have any complaints. I've been treated fairly to date, or at least fairly well. Were I anywhere else I might have cause for complaint, but of course were I anywhere else I would not exist at all, floating off into fictional other worlds whose character goes not only unrecognized but apathetically ignored by those who have a care in this world. My rhythms are moot, the day is bouncing over streets filled with beggars and fools and the decaying waste of failed lives. Their bodies make trampolines and tightropes upon which tigers and bears dance awkward tangos. In the morning bleary eyed drunks are promised bottles of cheap wine if they help clean up the mess left behind. The smell of vinegar wafts across the lot, forcing more than one unkempt head behind a bush for a quick heave. Nothing could be easier than to simply pick one after the other and suck stories out like lined and torn newspaper bylines. Inside the corner markets auctions are held to hold back the taxman and his cronies. I want nothing and so am ignored by the dead and forgotten soldiers of yesterday.

The writing is on the wall, inscribed across my face, my hands, the very matter of my mind. But today there is no need to read words of more or less varied sources and men and women pleasant enough to share an afternoon with but little more. In the worn thought machines and antiquated alchemist's shops around the world the motion of water brings all conversation to a dead halt. There is then only nervous shuffling and anxious coughs, deadened by quickly raised hands. I fight new fights, however, seeing the mirror reach for my throat, my eyes and ears, before the glass shivers and explodes into a thousand splinters across the floor, leaving broken pieces of a million different wasted lives shining idiotically back at me. There is no peace, only the frightened wanderings of lost souls looking for a cheap place to spend the night. Young girls cry and shout out for more laughter and tears and soiled nights to fill their years with lost memories. The television provides an accompaniment in A minor, while outside endless streams of tires and disheartened livestock wonder at the glory of it all. I wipe my shoes carefully, not wanting to spread the news any further than it already has gone but manage only to scatter the shards across the room in a slowly descending arc of mathematical precision whose beauty I would have stopped to admire at any other time. Although there are memories of frost and the unsung dead I find only more words crowding in across the light that now shines out in a rapidly expanding pool of extroverted indolence. There is nothing, that is, but light, although outside the streets echo with hollow laughter and the rattling of keys.

When the key changes, as it must eventually do if we are to move past these ruminations, the tone will turn somber, even dark, to ward off the light and shadow and undertoned posturings of evil men. The warfare will repulse and set forth new standards against which the dreams of lesser men will be measured. In the end the walls will crawl with lice and assorted other intimate companions of man. My words will cry and rove across barren plateaus the likes of which we have already seen and hopefully need never pass by again, although there can be no telling if the story is to be true. I wander now at night afraid to show my face but smiling when recognized. There has been nothing but a lifetime of work behind me, and ahead promises of more of the same. I can report safely now, knowing the word will get out sooner or later, irregardless of my activities. One day I know I will hope for a day that is nothing more than a stepping stone to the next, although I wait for that day in the same way I wait for death. There can be cessation and adversity but no one can ask a man to kill his brother. There are limits, after all.

I want nothing other than the rewards of a job well done; only, that is, what I was promised at the first day when they stuck a silver spoon in my dribbling mouth. My future and past intertwine and moan softly as they near climax. Within the moist confines of the spaces left between the two we are squeezed uncomfortably, not sure where to direct our eyes, embarrassed but maybe just a little bit curious as well. There is more, all of which will one day simply stop, dead to the world and the cares of the forgotten few. I will always be a fan, in other words, and hope for nothing more than a slightly more comfortable seat in the house. But there the matter stops, panting slightly, unsure how to go on.

I can watch, of course, as the words breath softly in and out across a languid space of empty promises. Inside the moments now move strange new machines, the nature of which I would be a fool to say I know. The mechanisms arrived in the morning mail, tightly packaged for safe delivery. Not to worry, I was assured, it was for my own good then the knife flashed briefly spilling the contents over the floor. Inside each exquisitely crafted device lay a microscopic set of instructions whose nature seemed fluid at best. Even as I struggled to read only one page the words could be seen to dissolve immediately behind the track of my eyes, the meanings rearranging themselves in subtle patterns outside the peripheral zones of daily life. The excuse being, I supposed, that there was much work to do, little time to worry about trivial matters like permanence. The important thing, in the end, was only to get the job done, no matter the cost. My head nods up and down blindly, following where no man can go before spinning off into eternity. The clowns spit fire and ice and beg for tea, complaining of sore throats. Give me only a break in the fast, a cold wired door within which goblins hide their biscuits and the angelic ones who might otherwise be afraid to show their faces smile and let themselves laugh for a minute or two before straining their faces all over again.

There is only vacuum into which the very breath I work myself into frenzied panics to assemble distills until nothing remains and the sand calls home on account. I cannot finish fast enough, the trees bend waiting for a sun that will rob them to the root, the stones know too that their time is coming, without cease. In the smallest spaces there are rumours of revolt but that is nothing to me. The thieves and petty criminals will go executed just the same, the news proclaim, so stay calm, put aside your fears and look out for a brand new day. But there are only thoughts drifting into half lit zones of neither day nor night nor spaces in-between, the stories go unrecognized, uncalled, unheard, until one day there is nothing at all left to say except a nervous laugh and fervent hopes to take again for all time the moments now slipping to the side. And following closely, unclear movements I want to call selections and ruminations but which lie too ill-defined to fall into such minor chords. There is only one sound: the rain and twilight falling and the erratic songs of caged birds. And into this I want to throw candy and rice as fond farewells bidden before their time. Leave me sorrow and promises of good times to come and I will give twice more again, or so I had promised. I will go again I know, if the deacons fail to deliver on their sermons, keeping one ear peeled behind me to cover my retreat.

Into the chambers find their way well fitted rounds of ammunition, the cold grease slides into fittings filed for just such an occasion, the death shouts out in multi-part harmonies for more liquor to help pass the day. Inside the workers trudge wearily home, not caring any longer to tune in, sure of the words before they are offered. There is a cold draft but the summer is preparing itself for its final onslaught; I want to do more that I did today but know there can be no other way. It is a matter of locks turning over chambers into which fit rods and cones about which I am supposed to ask but which I would prefer to leave to the side for a while. Perhaps then it is better to work over the arena with substantial smiles and laughter over which there is promised rain and strong winds. More lies and false rumours to move around like chess men on an erratically shaped torment of sighs. I look for no pieces or peace, only now and then good words and strong looks against which I can measure at least a handful of passion and death. Where nothing is promised or gained but new plans and ideas and dreams for the next day. In the evening I will go about my business, pretending not to notice interruptions as they wing about my head, impatiently keeping themselves fit and ready for the next day, and more beyond, the doubts of which rapidly dispel. I am the first sinner and now want to wash my hands only the waters are all tied up with other matters and can not be bothered with such frivolities. Give me just one day and I will weave sunlight out of worn threads found inside the trash cans which litter the street with dark threats. Give every day less until finally the collectors call demanding their pay leaving you laughing as you explain you have no money to give them. Inside wasted days like flies and torn toilet tissues you vomit out your death waiting blindly for salvation. Away from the troubled times we weep not knowing what else to do. I send pictures from the east and read uncomprehendingly my words upon my return. The strength wanes and begins to doubt itself, although it was foolish to believe in the first place. In the balanced breaths come small respites the nature of which can of course always be debated if exhaustion is called for. Send no flowers this time around, however, unless you are prepared for outrageously obscene responses, cat calls and hisses the likes of which have not been heard since Stravinsky first unveiled his latest masterpiece. There is no accounting for taste, although the effort is made, again and again. Simply a matter of quality, and then a bad case of the doldrums.

I am astounded by the lack of resistance. It is almost anticlimactic, leaving me with more energy than I know what to do with. Of course the moon will come again in a few weeks; we will see then if my words come too quickly for their own good. For the moment I wash over plastic membranes and look for blood to suck although in my eyes is only sadness and loss and memories that will not fade away. Against these I hold the worst kind of caress and bear banners proclaiming my innocence but I know if no one else does the true state of affairs, and am not surprised to meet others who say the same, although they do not notice when I tell them I know too. And this is because there is nothing in the mid twilight to see and nowhere to put our faces once morning comes and the keys are all we have again and the words fall around my head and over my shoulders onto the floor but there is no need, never I cry over again to make sure I am heard but for now there is once more nothing. Against these tides then I am told to measure myself but I want none of it, not even those occasional slips that are said to be so revealing. Inside panthers roam breathing moist gasping breaths, knowing that soon feeding time will come around again while rats and large dogs crawl on the floor looking for scraps. The clown is neither sad nor happy but is willing to go on for sake of something he does not have the time to relate although his friends laugh all the same, unhappy at his decision. There are only connections to follow over unsure pathways whose character is doubtful at best.

In a state of nature I would be dead; there is only a continuously spitting series of microns and elements devoid of any intrinsic merit whatsoever and even then there is nothing to do but go on. To think thoughts is to laugh at the nine wonders and ask for more, or forgiveness for crimes yet uncommitted. I want to apologize but have no mouth and nothing but spit pours from the various orifices I call home. Although charges are excessive I am assured that the matter will be taken care of through the home office, which has unfortunately recently relocated; it is only just now that they are beginning to receive inquiries again, and then only at uncertain intervals. The full disclosure of all doubt is a random assortment of misfits and bagatelles. To go further would be a complete betrayal of trust, and the sands gritting in my teeth will one day wear me down completely. I am surprised but not dead yet; in the evening we exchange tales of excess and decadence, not knowing yet what we are doing. There are no stories told that are new, still we go on for the sake of companionship. Inside again by a factor of twelve this time there are difficulties, and promises not yet made. I want to hold out for a little more time but find instead that I have dropped over the side, drowning myself in pools of silvered mercury which I pray does not penetrate my skin for then madness must surely erupt before the end of the day. There are holds and bars which drift out of sight but without whom I am helpless, kicking my legs out over the oceans before sending home for help. Without lies and dead words, always I want to send greetings but find my arms unable to move. It is truth that makes cold the ice and waters surrounding.

But I forget my manners, going on about matters of no concern to anyone but me. I suppose I should apologize but find instead dreams turning cartwheels against which I put my shoulders but have nowhere to brace my feet. Without seeing where the first word or last are to be put the song goes in concentric circles, finally spinning out of control throwing out the mad cackles of the insane without which life would become too interesting. Within the stones sit quiet labyrinths about which films will be made one day although today nobody breathes a word, at least not in polite company. There are rules, after all, without which we would stumble quickly, taking the tablecloth with us. In times of war certain behaviors are perhaps more excusable than others. Until only the promise of redemption can keep us going any longer; I waited while the choir tossed off one more round then moved towards the doors. There is no tear I can call my own, the doctor moves his hands over my face and pronounces me cured, although I cannot help but doubt. In days past the glamour fades and takes overdoses which no one notices; the wards are filled with serious cases none of whom I want to speak with today, although they are all first rate, I am assured by an anxious nurse practitioner still unsure how to handle her authority. I have given nothing, and should feel more guilty than I do. The air quivers with silent authority, shaking my doubts until their heads begin to rattle loosely from side to side, leaving me unsure how to proceed. By the side of the road stand tall trees, tempting me to go on in their shadows but I have to shout not today which is fine with them, as I knew it would be. After a short lunch I find the stones are gathered in ellipsoidal banterings around which I feel too dull to make my way. There is talk in the town, of course, but nothing to fret about. Despite my worries I still find time to lie on a sunny embankment and look up at the sky, although I must admit that I see nothing.

Although there are pressing engagements I struggle for only one more moment within which to fill large orange machines and listen to oracular moans which the parents' boards would like to see banned if only for the sake of common decency but no one cares, leaving now and then gaps these well groomed faces find ways to fill with feeble minded pruriences. And others follow as well, paths and preambles about which nothing should be said or noted. I am content to listen for a time, then go on about my business as if nothing has happened, although they find wonders too deep to fathom which is fine I suppose for them if it is enough. Inside the catacombs there are smiles and shaking bones but not much else except memories of estates lost to the wind. The threads and fabrics stretch slightly although I do not want to say more; the problem is specific and needs no remedy, time will heal with wondering hands and sighs that are across bordered pastures. Give me nothing now only rest but nothing will show in the end, not finish or shine or even a simple sign. At the end, then, will be the aroma of brilliant midgets roving over fields strewn with battle axes and good-bye letters the likes of which no fiction could dream, under any drug, and more is always better until one day too much is reached but that day I will put behind me an unwelcome visit, time spent in wine vats filled with dark secrets and poorly held views. But I want nothing more.

The beauty is in nothing behind a look. The rooms are cold and clammy, like faces in the sun, strung out on clothes lines. I abandon the ship with laughter following close behind. There are abundant supplies of lint and lace of an obsolete variety that still retains a flavor of freshness. In blood and soot filled stains the ropes tie slowly around our necks creating a strong new fashion statement the ridiculousness of which I hesitate to take note of. Screens roast themselves dry before my worried eyes but I have no choice and must go on. I find time to hurry a little bit, painting pretty pictures on sidewalks and cafes surely inside of which there will be a man of steel. Others have no access at all; they tell me things I know nothing about and which no longer matter. The hands of a hundred years and more, always more I shout to no one in particular to make sure I have made myself clear. The job goes well at times, there is a strange translucency that wavers over country fields. Always I want to say another word or two but keep still, unsure how to proceed. The warriors will take note, then root, then appoint ministers and priests without which there would be great problems. Although they are all cripples I am astounded by their agility in handling affairs of state, matters of the greatest geo-political import. Without bricks or stones I can build edifices of more durable natures but unsure, leaning first this way then that. In resorts the comfortable rest for another day, afraid to lose their edges and tans. To keep in full polish is another matter, better left to servants and assorted other drudges whose lives I do not envy, no matter how well protected. Other than this there is movement at the outskirts of well proportioned figures and dance studios filled with gold. I am offered lead roles but no one has the money any more to follow through on their offers. Without a grain of certainty or doubt I peruse old newspapers looking for the best prices. It is after all the thought that counts. The temperature wanes, rising then falling again.

Spit and polish and style and frigid whores whose legs long ago lost shape and soon will decay into pools and bogs within which the fresh dead linger for a time before going on their ways each make their appearance, then exit with grace. Without a doubt I have seen no riches or frost but still there is nothing worth mentioning that sits well with the others. And that is the time for silence and meditation and forgetful stares behind which lingers steadily decreasing deaths. In intricately carved warrens the sound of sledgehammers motivates me to find more lost and lonely strangers whose only questions are thought before in elaborate constructions the likes of which are found in every frozen school across the globe and which is each time considered the most rare and precious gem. Behind which stand not years or months or even days but only cold eyes. Of course there are reflections coming through every pore, every burst and shining capillary about which anatomy books chortle to no end of degrees. Because there are excuses more fashionable than some I wait to find renovated graves done up in the latest neo-gothic folk lore. Outside there are certain agents about whom there will one day be a great deal to say. In the white hallways the glows of iridescent light fixtures work their ways across ancient piles of decaying manuscripts about which I want to know nothing but odd flurries of machine music. To say I am ranting moves me to tears; I said nothing at all, leaving satisfied smiles, slippery doubled over figures missing maybe their morning deadlines this time around. Without further ado I calmly take all these unwanted reflections and detonate them into tightly coiled incendiary devices and self fueling drag racing machines. It is not I and it is in every stale breath of air and then there is rest but not peace.

Tinned ear canals take moist sounds and remove the impurities and fog. Warped go boards creak, unwilling today to play any longer but afraid to stop for fear of what might come next. Inside fictitious business forms and licensed drug dealers without training or discipline still there is a certain something about which I can only form the vaguest imageries. Perhaps in other times I might have said some words over which spells could be passed but for now the windows do the job, ventilating my breathes in awkward moments when I am not sure where to put my hands. I am assured that still to this day there is no true prosecution of a crime of passion, perhaps for reasons better left unsaid.

In the early evening the rattles of tiny snakes leave echoes which fade rapidly. I have sought more or less enough to keep me satisfied but go on nevertheless as though there were few other things to do. Without exaggerations or inflated sensations of exhilaration and euphoria there could be no alteration or collapse in any meaningful sense of the word. I can look for salt and dried fish but have no other recourse but seven sided figures which spin very slowly at first, then more and more rapidly until their movements become a complete blur. I have tried to stop and ask if this is absolutely necessary but find myself tongue-tied, as if I were a deaf mute looking out at a sea of smiling faces but wanting nothing to do with the whole affair despite repeated advice to the contrary. Of course there are rewards but their shape and size go unrecognized by casually met acquaintances. And those more close we forget have never blown down semaphores or other communication devices but finally I don't care, having only to point out in my favorite direction the journey's end. In footsteps of giants who turn side to side and grow mustaches and beards to hide their stature there are spaces out of which I am told the chosen people could begin to carry out the process of slow lingering death. There are shadows now where once lay smooth flesh and the flavor of lost nights. I can mow the stones until their faces shine brightly back from even plains but find somehow the whole idea revolting. I cannot even say I have tried when nothing remains of the light but uneven undulations of the divine substance which others try to convince themselves are worthwhile efforts and sublime causalities. Naturally the games have taken their toll, although the final accounts have not yet been tallied. Nervous riders wait impatiently for news to carry forth in narrow gaps between stolen mountains and caverns the size of your fist. I hold the sands and dry docking facilities hostage in fruitless expectation that somehow my efforts will come to nothing. I have tried many tricks and tools without success. To call me lazy would be kind but most are not partial to notice in the first place. I of course have my doubts now and then but worship snidely in front of stone and iron and assorted other constructions. To drink the night perhaps would be good but escapes my imagination which has itself moved about uneasily, no longer sure how to go about the long lingering rental of stolen works. In-between are cogs which turn brutally without a care but their movements are of the world of dreams as well. Without a doubt I have no more insects and now wait by traps baited and set many days earlier. I am overwhelmed by sense and dull witted ministrations of formulaic designs into which are thrust pigeons and other small urban wildlife. To call out for freedom is an illusion which will carry even the most fainthearted to their graves. Send only picture postcards as reminders that soon you too will arrive in the frozen north where the rush of wild shrews and lemmings goes unnoticed in the general stir.