The light moves

The light moves in the rippled patterns of blown liquid refracting. Sinuous, clear, electric nets oscillate across the wall, spreading out from particular spots at some moments and shivering in decreasing frenzy out toward the alley. Soft filtered color traces through some of the lines, transforming as they twist upon themselves, idle yellow to lukewarm grey spueth across the wall, disappearing, impoverished, arising charitably and truthfully clear again, the green hopes of the regenerated creature precede its old rose anguish, and truthfully clear again before the void where the strand of light wastes its gift and recedes further. In its absence the black seal of death, the orange end.

Through the night you shiver back through the day. The tendrils of light that swirl around you do not harbour memory. You do not remember. The places still are and the objects still where your hands aligned them. Things touch places forever. The end is in orange pressed into your eyes in sleep, the tiny daily suicide. In it is the empty afternoon apartment, yellow with self scrutiny, leave the city, leave the long rays through blinds that ignite the grey dust of your breath, leave the must palazzo, wake up to a green sky through the alley window in your empty bedroom at dusk across the hollow sky dome, the ubiquitously hollow apartment swollen static from the pressure of your grog and on the street is black prenight emptiness, black puddles, black churches, solid places not carved open by memories. When night fell the light arose again filled with violet, forcefully evacuating the city, leaving you sealed, moony, with your sleepless self accusation.