Streets in the city, tapering into gauzy darkness, terminate charitably into buildings or at the last of her footfalls. The vast sags of land that coast over the distant precipices and continue into sheets of manicured grass plains, where beneath, or beyond, slow water sits and gently erodes the base of a wall that rises up out of the lawn, and looms over the street. She did not approach, it came over her. Across the plains, in all directions, homes. The errant lights warm living rooms throw into the cloud stricken night slowly sink. On a blank horizon the last twilights race away from the profanity of the black mountains, the black basalt, and the black buttes; the highlights describing the edges of the landscape bleed away, and the day is etched from the sky until the entire world is renounced.

When you find things amiss, ensnared in new reeds, laid out on gleaming tile, you stutter, falter, you are ineffectual and you must change your trajectory to contain these dead ends. You reexamine the chain of causality. You were indeed there at its root, it has found you in these wanderings. All things stagger out from your footfalls and handprints. You carry the paint chips ‘neath your nails, evidence of your periodic return, or of the twisting back of these streets upon you, with slightly different suns and tides and histories. She picks them out with her other fingernails. Passageway upon passageway each painted the same dry bone hue, yet different, in different layers, while the sun falls away from them and their own lights arise.

Enormous things change. The ocean laps back and forth between the coasts and swirls down underneath itself into lightless caverns. The sand drifts along down the beach and the sky where it was filled with clouds turns bright brown and where it had been white a faint rain falls and will go on falling. I try to keep it off of my skin. It is a sudden discovery of old pain, rootless and rattling. It runs down my coat and over my shoes and through the veins on my hands. I lift the hair off of my neck and when I walk a raindrop falls under my collar, runs between my shoulderblades and soaks into my underclothes. It makes my neck hard and I feel that I need to pivot my head to keep my neck from crumbling into flakes. I stop under a street tree.

Each color body drifts through the fabric of the air bearing the profile of a local object: a chair back, a long conical pleat, a stack of table cloths. With a breath, the spectral furniture is drawn in, and exhaled in a cloud. The poses of the hall are exacted in the emptiness among the richly moist air. The darkness between the floating beads conjures the foliate pattern of the rug in waxy negative space and the air between each bead is the pale mauve of swollen breathing. The air space between each bead, each complete refracted room containing a breathing body, is an empty chasm filled with that breath. Each bead floating away from the rug makes visible the entire expanse of its pattern. In the space between breaths, in stillness, reflection is the ideal depiction of a disintegrating reality.

Through twisted covered alleys, at the dead ends of canals, the floors of crevasses, neither you nor your reflection emerges. You watch the stone patio. Still water traces the stone joints with pale green light, deep ocean phosphorescence, on delicate waves that reflect deep in your dry eyes. The reflections compound off of glass, back to water, hidden mirrors, varnished fingernails, slick stone and watery footprints, eyes, your eyes, her eyes, and swells with uniform intensity blotting out all other traces of light. You look at shapes and faces, expressions, her night window, the blinds pried open by a fingertip, the early morning pure blue lighting the apartment until smoky long afternoon rays slide through the blinds to awaken her, a deep orange with no warmth, bright enough only to shame.

There is never silence, but, you can never discern a single source. Everything happens at once, everywhere. The rain comes together pattering the water in the parking lot, celestial infinities of individual water droplets in a continuously falling body. Everything, every one, is lost in the greatness of the storm. The flush of it all together amounts to a deep internal quiet, an airless security. If each drop is a moment, an instant alone, flashing against the tar, you are quickly at the end of this. You count back through your breaths in each disappearing drop. Days pass in the only rainy days you can recall. This is a day all at once. One chance. The possibilities of the days that conspire to determine your worth would be exhausted by the flicker of rain, all at once, in a morning.

Night, in here and painted across the windscreen. The cool intruding dampness of the city night, filled with captured light and haze coats her skin, hair, and eyes. She raises her finger ahead in a pointing motion until it connects with the dewcoated glass. A bead of moisture is pressed loose and draws a clear trail down to the dash letting in a wash of darkness. Her eyes bob in black bile that is her body floating. Her eyes are recessed so deep in the gaseous head that lolling brown and orange night traces of light passing through the body are snuffed out before reaching them. These wasted gifts she stores close to her mind are the last thing in which she has dominion over in the night. Blindly, she ignores the wavering darkness and she dreams of day.

There was no movement in any of these chambers, it is you that must move, before you are flattened, painted into the compositions, you linger in mirrors and before glass. You allow reflections to move you through the rooms, translating through chance orientations and angles of incidence. You are incapable of claiming a place, setting your shoes in the chamber beyond the late afternoon sun. A third mirror, in the ajar mirrored door of the medicine cabinet is touched by pale afternoon light that plays off of surrounding buildings and drifts into a northern window piece by piece. It tinkles slowly onto the folds of an unmade bed, the pillow is fluffed and its case is smoothed so that the open end is flat and sealed. Soft shadows float over the rumpled sheet and the room is empty save for the bed.

The anxiety of the rain fills my body. The drop and track of rain down my back are still damp and my skin tenses. It is all forward. Something is in the moment and it displaces the last moment. It replaces the last moment. I push out the life that I live for the one that is coming each moment. After some little shock materializes my body out of nothing I am nothing but my body. The rain drips out of the tree in larger drops and I am nothing but my neck and shoulders, wet through my clothes. I can’t climb out of the wetness. It is stuck to me. The noon is filled with fine threads of rain that tickle everywhere. Nothing has happened, a blankness before a vision could arise into it out of the shapes that blankness harbors. I need to find my apartment on this street. I need to replace this, and that.

All of the color effects float in fictitious gases of ink, sprayed into the air in such fine beads that they hang languidly, maintaining the effect of perpetual swirling by hanging above the vegetal and nimbic arabesques of the textile landscape with a translucency that draws the appearance of motion out from the lively pattern. The beadlets merely hang twirling in space, but not around one another. The pause within a breath can be so protracted that it is not apparent in the tableau at this moment if the pose of the pattern cedes to the gesture of the breath. Between the reach of potential and the draw of sleep, awareness simply lingers. The blue stems and palmettes stride across neutral taupe to the edges of focus where they stand independently before dissolving into pure respirable tones.

Parallel lines of shadow softly inscribe the blinds across your all pupil eyes, dry beyond blinking, the shadows of soft dust on silt eyes. The clarity of the lines suffers when your eyes strain. The shadow is more than the thing. The lines interweave and bundle together drawing a silhouette of prickles, dry reeds, hairs, and fibers. Her pale blue skin shows a crescent just above the knee and between opal plaits on her neck. She stands at the edge of the window frame, her right hip and shoulder bearing on the cool jamb. She steps away. She reaches up with her left hand and places two fingers between the blinds and pries them open. Your dress is spread out in a sprawling landscape of flowers, turbid blue green. Her right hand smoothes the fabric over her thigh and her eyes squint.

There is a long clear stretch. The sky is brilliant beige and tired heat pastes the asphalt with steam. You put your feet out from the shelter and look at yourself extending into the day. You have done something or seen something, you have forgotten something in the mess of all the things you remember. Simple failures are enough to fill the empty hours of loosened days. Their resurfacing is habitual but their origins are obscure. They become confused with catastrophes in the ways that they make your skin feel. The air vibrates. Were you born incorrectly? It is afternoon and rain is dusting the horizon and dissolving the tall lamps in the distance and all of the hard things that are left out in it. The sunlit air is electric around you and in your nose and lungs.

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