after Apparition by JKD
I feel « the mist of what I see in world of piled sentences » places, which we see without knowing by what we see « bypassed, passthrough » and in all directions reduced, equal, fallen, solid, sullen, full of senses. The unknown prod, shape astray and untrue: Skin. How we can't see, the counterpoint of our pain from fire, our here, the same encompassing unkilled current arrives again to howl and again. I am not or empty, weaved inside out in my copy, unreal and what creates me. Seize it, turn it inside out again, tear its clothes off! That was me, again ideal. However you close here, reclose, the only recluse is rain. « This conversation adrift on the water. » The othernot voice, assumed and alone inside the graph of absence, always stepping back. Again, shaking when I might remember. I might have been only this: a branch from the piled world, irrepeatable fabric woven of hesitation, love under the weight of threat: the sound of a voice: syllapilon.