There is nothing

There is nothing there, nothing is here for you. Long headdown days do not wear away your body, they dry it into a bundle of hollow stems. When you crumble and disintegrate you fall in one spot, beneath a metal counter onto clean glimmering tile. You are too far from the sea to be consumed and disseminated. You may be propped there emptily beneath a lamp for so long that you do not realise you are not there, that you have not been there. The cold lamp sputters out. The stillness that coats the slick tile, the countertops, is not of respite of deposit. The vacuous sunlit hours in which you weighed the invitation of every open door, in every darkened dim apartment was a reproducible moment full of texture and sequence, movement. You have not found yourself here, in a space of total reflection, it has disappeared around you. The sunlight that falls into alcoves, that plays across clouds which move by, the warmth on your shoulders, the ache in your feet subsides. You cramp, your legs and oedimic feet lose sensation. You are refrigerated. Repetition in space makes the city, makes the sea, drifts up dunes and thickets of reeds. There is nothing here for you. There is not enough of you left to stop here. Your head down beneath a lamp. Your hands move over objects and clutch tools. Repetition in time wears away desire. It leaves you with desperation and absence. The body you began with remains still in the spot it began, yet time has passed and your body has gone. Loss in time is irretrievable. There is not enough of you for time to claim. You watch your hands out before you play across the reflective surface, tracing beads of moisture, blue veins stand around your fingers, the reflections turn to green icy powders, where your hand traced a palm print remains with hooked fingers in a spectral grasp, you rub the powders into the surface with your palm, it is gritty and damp and begins to cake as it drags across the tile, the lines of grout catch the powder, you scrape it out with your blue fingernail, beneath your two fingers closest to your right thumb you collect a wad of moist powder and rub it into each tile, it buffs away the reflection into a satin diffused green, the light upon a cloud, you etch fine feathery lines into the surface, you wear it down against your fingers, your impact is negligible, there is nothing for you, only the process of disappearing, of turning materials into vapour and dust, you are vapour. The tile surface remains, it stretches out beneath each desk.

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