The silhouettes of withdrawn spaces willed to hold the horizon are full of mountain haze lingering beneath the apparitional night they are masked from. Arcs of orange sky ignited beyond the horizon vibrate with the chapped faced anxiety of birth in distant parallel streets where lamps seem to bloom. She is moving parallel to the streetscape and stops before a gable broad in profile, left side coming almost to the ground, hirsute with antennae, and electrical wires seen over her right shoulder clearly within the luminous night sky. She approaches the threshold of its emptiness where her hands are all of her against the captured mouth in the shape of an apartment home. She steps into a disappearance from which she would rise enclosed in one of those chambers, behind the sky.

Her shoes are filthy. Those spots of white rubbed through the dirt, those shoes are caked with walked-in dust, asphalt lagoon silt, laid in the dirt dust asleep with legs together and feet stacked, rubbed in sleep those coats of dust branded into white fabric, gilt gray into the white fabric, the tiny particulates of rubbed rocks rubbed into something old, an old shoe and old worn stiff socks, ignored extremities, she does not know she is rubbing them together, can you not feel tall grassland seeds that creep through holes in your sole, migrate through arches and into heel holes where they imbed in your fractured skin, those dirty skins, hardened, unfeeling calluses, these feet are in a different realm, below her horizon, forgotten, submerged. Standing water makes the dirt on your feet real.

Outside is the opposite of the empty room. Everything is at once. It is a torrent that I cant separate myself from. I clench my head to crush it all out into a safe orbit cloud and the sand flood slides back over to bury me, a point in an endless landscape made of the same stuff everything else is wrought in. When I shift in it I dont know it. I am an effect. When I happen upon a street it is every street running all the way back to the ocean and all the way through the desert. When I see the lights of the windows at dusk they are every other window. It is all the same in each glimpse but I know it is always changing. I can never see the end of it because I dont know if I have moved. Then I am in a room. The bedsheets and pillows are my rind. They are a terrain of whom I am the earth.

The body is never causally isolated because there is no fixed point from which causality is gauged, even the rug roils beneath. Third station, second body. The hips and the buttocks do not move toward the thighs when they raise back slightly to 15º. The breadth of the asplay thighs, at ease, corresponding to the diameter of the calf which is never wider than the buttocks, causes a rise and fall of the hips with no lateral motion. The spaces between stations, in which action is assumed, where cause bears effect, are insignificant, a breath. They are the wispy spaces between the lines of the instructional set, the conflicts loosed from the machines increments. The body, although inseparable from its internal causality, is forever gated from its desire to move differently, more correctly.

Your memories are repetitions, not moments. There is not time to file your heap of things, they come again, the same but different, each a corruption of your recollection. You meet them all again in the way you met them last, finding that place they occupied before you slept. You find the black censer chandelier over front steps, the green painting, the red plastic telephone, in some order, awakening in you nothing beyond the shapes your head recognizes. They arise in different places carrying their stains of disuse and dusty nests to deceive you and your days fall apart and quickly forward. You leave behind your fingerprints and hairs, reflections, shadows, and you take with you flecks of paint or glaze, dust, stains, incriminations in your wake where only she can see them.

Your fingers inch softly into the warm sand. The thin black water pulls away from your hands, slowly undressing itself from you across your arms and your hair washed forward and your burning eyes filled with the softened haze of white morning. It is not awakening. Things are not other things. Events are not other things. It is the water pulling back, leaving you. You are heavy and there is nothing to you. It is an arrival. The heaviness is inside somewhere absent. Youve taken on water. The sand is damp underneath your body. You let your eyes wash with the blankness of the new morning. Faces and eyes and fingers and reflections rise and settle into the layers of white painted on your vision. You put your cheek in it and sink enough to leave a mark in the shoreline.

She risks losing her course disappearing through shut eyes. The apartment block in the shape of the void is masked on her retina. In the white haze of her head looms an apparitional apartment home appointed to clutter the red throb of her eyelid. The shape approaches chastity, a wholeness ignorant of the bits that fill it, lost in burning fractious night. In its solidity lies the goodness to which all characters are integrated, a vessel of truth that does not threaten to envelop the sky or road. It floats before the sky, an optical bastion against the end of an Idahoan plain. Also, within the white are things and places: teakettles, toile armchairs, silk floral arrangements, braids, low-lit dens, closets under stairs, hiding spots under kitchen tables, candlelit tables, windows standing up to the sky.

The grimy blooms washing over your shoes are from somewhere hidden. You have not seen the sun reflected and be annihilated, the worn spots in the sea where land rose and washed away, down to wooden piles, dirt caked splinters, feet sink, down through silt where currents fill them with dark green water rocking gently ever forward, the trudging life, your shoes are grimy, socks sagging around blue ankles, clotted gray, stretched elastic, frayed, wavering in ripples where she steps, shake them out, peel them off and let them float atop a fresh puddle, let them breathe free from your skin, leave them to dry in the sun, afternoon evaporates water from flat stones, your socks left by recessional tides, let them be free of you, go in peace, her shoes are old and worn out, ruined, walk them to shambles.

This day is mine. If it were the last it could be the last and nothing would come of it outside of my skin. I have become a point. For countless days I have been a shadow in dreaming things. Parts of me have disappeared. Things that I have left behind have usurped me and denigrate and incriminate me. If I could buff away the fingerprints I made on shop windows I would scour the city for them, but my fingerprints no longer lead to me. This day will become between me and my skin. If it is the last I wont leave anything to reflect on. If I go on I will be painted over, because I am not moving. This is the way to open myself wide into something that I have never been. I am too material. I will disappear, or change, or I will want to walk on the sand at the beach.

The upright thighs, cleaved by the calf, full splay again, prop the hips at 5º above level sloping downward to the buttocks, wherefrom the abdomen rises back at 30º above level, propped on a mess of other bodies and pinned in place by another mess of bodies. Fourth station, second body. The body retreats toward the implied pantomimes of corporeality in respiration, nictitation, and circulation. Each phase in the perpetual recycling of movement moves the instruction set closer to reconciling itself with the body. There is a point in the cycle of the machine at which the catalog of movements becomes a memory, and the memory becomes an identity, and the machine can recognize its history, and it can operate with intention, although it can not react, nor can it deviate, only act.

You shake. The night is moon warmed and orange skied. You are pulled and pulled slightly from all around, from hidden places and your immediate surroundings, from far before and from this moment. The pull of the morning ocean rolling back from the shore and the chaos of light and breath tug limply from hundreds of glimmering points and you hang in the balance. The devious symmetries of sleep hold you almost just where you are, but do not keep you from shivering. What your eyes saw and your hands touched and the still air you breathed from all of the days apartments, grows outward from you in both directions, act and consequence, the crushing symmetries of guilt paralyze your body on display in the open center of the lit universe.

The sky meets the ground all around you. You look up the beach to the dry sand warming, full of light and bare white feet laced with succulent veins, green in a barren morning. Even with all of the false starts at day it moves on naturally, it creeps. It moves on more quickly than you can follow and white cloud shapes disguise omens in the white sky. You only inch through the twirl of the sun and unlacing of the clouds. When day is all moving over you and you lay or stand, rotating on all axes in liquid air, packed in smooth sand, and forgetting to breathe it moves quickly and you know that when it passes you by you are being held in time by a gaze but you cannot appraise it. An eyeless white head shines over you. The sand in your shadow is still damp. You feel the looks. You are in my day.

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