Heaps of pots with plants nearby, wooden baseball bats, hollowplastic whiffle bats, cacti stretching tall up over the breeze-block wall, their faces looking like cow skulls in the poorly lit streetlamps. Shutter speeds of 2”, 3”, 15”, 25”, layering laser images onto the blank eye, opening and closing, processing, spitting out a composite of condensed time. A cone of cloudedplastic for blowing smoke, steam seething through the flossed teeth. Purplecrimson drink, relieved of its olive casing. A howling backdoor man, pureblue wolf.
Thousands of spongedivers dead before the discovery of the bends, bronze arms recovered from 60meters down. The largest piece by volume known as Fragment A. A pretty spartan plant, not much foliage on it, actually its just a stick in a pot of soil, a green ribbon tied around a small post for support. The Journalist shifted his vantage of the iron statue glowing of cold sun. Flicked the pen open and began sketching, imagining next what. This 3654 year-old tablet does not belong to Us The People. It pertains to time and life lost. “And this is the worst slide in the world, probably.” Sapolskyth.
A turning indigo wheel of Samsaric oblivion, cyan’s cobalt stretching out past the swirling ink center. Heavy, heavyfucking beings of sulfur, cardamom, anthracite of paprika and elysian dust, sleek black jaguar god, knife gripped tight.
No goal, slowly churning storm of particles chemicals, the collective behavior, what will happen in the next moment and past moment respectively, the core theory, a certain unwavering number in every cubic centimeter no matter the expansion. Infinite directionless power, foundational mysteries, maps of quantum space continually unfurling, a superposition of awake and asleep.
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