Segment 1


The Sleeping Eye

and pressed tightly into her hands; she gave willingly like cool, liquid glass. Inwards, falling blossoms at the end of spring and a rising tick-tick-tick spun wrong way ’round as the needle dropped. She swallowed the darkness, folding up; overcast dawn grey at the first sign of rain. Hands and fingers blossomed, peeled away on a soft wind skin first, then bone in fits and starts just like her ninth birthday. Delicately floating away on a breeze but she was so, so sad whenever she blew out those candles.

A rumble, shudder, explosion of realization in an instant; there was no longer the comfort of loneliness this deep down. She was; simply being was too basic so forwards and backwards met to make her now a passed present, like a gift one could only give and never receive. Something was consuming those foundation tastes and smells and grew hungry for sights and sounds, true treasures to have and hold.

An echo played, plucked on steel strings and her self knew the shape. Downwards and away the curved horns of the bull rose on either side of that disappearing silver cord, so onwards and upwards she went, a fade-in rising pitch she climbed with expert ease. Little lightning on telegraph lines leaped forward, unbidden; a day spent in the park beneath that tree covered in letters while thunder crashed overhead, overheard, those long-faded lips meeting again and again.

What colour were his eyes; him, so much like the thunder on that last day spent free from the bull, the beast, the bidden time all-caught-up. Try as she might, the colour of his eyes stayed a pale, unremarkable grey.


I always wish I could say it one last time / it always feels like a long, slow goodbye


She remembered crying on that day.

It was late fall and the tired sunlight lit her kitchen. On sunny days she got exactly ten minutes of direct illumination before the sun, with all its titanic power, sank uselessly behind a long row of glass and steel condominiums left empty for all but the short summer months. She watched the sunlight crawl languidly across her kitchen table, catching and snagging, for just a moment, on each small drop she had left. Some minor defiance on her part; the conceit that something so small could move the world and stall the sun itself and yet even those things felt microscopic next to the feeling that summoned her tears.

She looked up only once, hoping to see something, anything, but she was too late; all she saw was the distant gold shadow cast from behind those empty, glass prisons until it, too, was gone beyond some distant horizon she could never hope to reach.



The Bull

There was no further to go; all that was had come and gone, food for that dark shape that wandered this way and that on irregular, slow thu-thumping hooves. Every staggered step closer took a little more and left a little less; the world shook and rattled in that quaking and the colours fell like loose dishware resting on some shelving display, hitting the floor, shattering, sinking away in impossible directions. It bellowed; the I, he would have said, should stand and fight but the Me was a coward without string. Everything was circles falling down the rabbit hole; the growing existent poverty from which the idea of escape was just one more meal.

A quiet moment stretched out cat-like across a brown sofa with small white spots, bringing back innocent days of forts and balloons and spilled juice. Wind chimes and pine needles spilled through the westward windows; small fingers held lemonade up to her eyes and the blue sky turned gold.


Raytracing in the 20th century / Spirals


She was torn apart by a pack of dogs, screaming, gnashing, barking, howling and the sound of ripping skin and clothes pulled away by flashing white and red. A steel box, a white room, whispered crying and shaking heads inside 301; the same as his. The persistent beat was measured and cut with a stabbing bleat-bleat-bleat interrupted by the distant sounds of long, slow incisions being drawn and silenced.

Everything seemed flat, 2-dimensional; a sleeping eye pried open, alone, it’s other long departed. Open, shut; an independent polyrhythm (he would be so proud) concurrent but separate from the others. A one-sided strobing; light on the right and forever dark on the left. The strobing stopped; a blackness took hold that moved and breathed wherever she felt.

The first eternity was the hardest; before The Bull took over the edges, before the cliffs and chasms rose and fell, before the music and behind the scenes, she searched. All those delicate, crystal promises touted her whole life about the lost and the found and how riding at the front of the train meant being the first one through the tunnel but whatever you do, don’t stare directly at it or you’ll go blind; what was blindness if not a less imprisoning loneliness than what she felt now?

An utter, absolute blindness and deafness had robbed her of something more precious than the simple sights and sounds; it had rendered her apart from an irreplaceable nothing that moved her in ways nothing else ever could.



Event Horizon Dawn

There was nothing left but downwards, away; everything else has dipped below the most distant horizon she could imagine, the places all enraptured with The Bull.

She was so, so tired; the iridescent rainbow-filled clouds seemed to go on forever and there was never anything to revel in up there. Her music stretched as wide as possible; the whole of everything seemed to curve away at the edges, falling inwards as one drifted outwards.


A ripple became a wave / in search of


The Bull took her by his horns and dragged her away, into the centre of his world of twisting truths and rhetoric given wings. There was no fanciful ball, no king on a throne or queen proclaiming truths, nothing but a tree of the palest white standing on a mound of rotten fruit. Golden apples hung, sprung, fell and rotted as quickly as a raindrop, as slowly as molasses. The hidden run cast its light from beyond the hill, just out of sight but never rising.

She was naked; The Bull stood behind her; it had his face. She scrambled up the slick, mouldy hill on her hands and knees, trying to reach the tree at the top. Its branches sprawled out in every direction with cold, delicate and leafless fingers. The fruit stained her skin red and yellow as she struggled up to the trunk, the sickly-sweet stench filling every pore.

A golden apple in her hands; it shone like the afternoon light that slid over her body. She looked for the sun but all she saw was a profound void; a total lack of existence from which not even terms like light and darkness could be derived. The light itself simply was; it was cold.

She took a bite of the apple.

She heard the sound of waves crashing on the beach in September; they were making love under the stars. She heard the sound of acid jazz saxophone; they were fucking on the kitchen table in her apartment before dinner ended. She heard the after-movie music play as the credits rolled; they were holding one another as they left with the wind. All of it, too, slowly disappeared into the profound silence; that absence of being.

The world faded out at the end of the record and left the echoing click-click-click of a needle forever skipping the last groove. She cried in the darkness breathlessly with sad, silent sobs and tears like the rain of her first summer kiss at camp. She rubbed her eyes, held her face,

By Mainebot

Old, bitter man made better only by little bits of oil-like language made languid; buy a letter, even a vowel, loose a low arrow always aimed at voluminous alliterated love.