Long wrinkles
Long wrinkles fan out from her clenched eyelids. Her stature looks so forced. Why does she pressure these objects into the emptiness where she belongs. As part of me they feel silly. It is just conjecture, of course, that when confronted with the blank canvas of domestic life, I would choose a stock environment. She turns her hands over to face her palms upward and presses the tips of both thumbs between the first and second knuckles of her pointing fingers. I press the second knuckle of each pointing finger into my closed corresponding eyes. I feel my eyeballs caving slightly against the pressure. The inverted silhouette of the black apartment block remains. I unpack it. The visage is empty, white, awaiting the hopes of the regenerated creature. Citrine spots bloom in the white apartments of her eyes. Beginning as fresh green sands sparkling in concentric waves out from the pressure point of my knuckle, the shimmering hue sprawls out across the eyescape. The verdant mist laps against the boundaries of my inner vision and reflects back in softer currents to slowly encroach on the zone where my knuckle presses, where the apartment is cloaked in the perennial sap of translucency, of humility. Pressing deeper. The visible concavity expands with a slightly deeper hue degrading the profiles of home further. In this central depression, in the grown over remains of inverted domesticity, she yearns for final repose.
At the cusp between the pleasure of permanent damage and the innermost wisdom the sparkles alternately shimmer with roseate light. A light consumes the eye and smothers out the remnants of vision as recognition. Here, where even the natal sight, the ancient directive to gaze behind the material world, is occluded. Only a pure physical sense remains. A visceral vibration that leaves the flesh unaffected, that quivers the memories, cycles with the sparkling pink of the crushed vitria. I cast out my presence in the existing world, where there were things and stimuli. You will not find respite here. The stasis of all those cancelled things, objects, abandoned their impetus for being here. Histories, conceptions, correlations, the desires from which we were wrought sparkle only in the brilliant, rosy median between grief and joy. Even my memories of shapes, profiles, and volumes of these things are cast inert. What rattles forth are anguished collections of the senses of bodies blind from the start. I and those afloat in a boundless storehouse of light shivering to find its forms.