And then it keeps happening. Like a hole in the middle of
the memory of a field. The interruption of it spreading, widening
out toward the edges. Or is it that the field, receptive,
pours itself into it? Like a consummation. The way a fire
can realize by feeding. What knows a thing better than
what consumed it? Like the deepest active black of the
cast iron pan. Constant reminder; omen of the stove. The dead
center of an inhuman eye. Its iris is my living space; my entire life.
And what next? Nothing rested, or it may have tried to.
But everyone in power kept wanting to keep it, to keep it
going. To stop it from solidifying. They needed it to seep
its way into everything, everything. They needed it to push
past the filters. To replace the filters. They needed it to take
the place of everything, and it does. It swallows inconsistencies
like a snake swallows eggs. I crack an egg into the pan;
I’ll crack another. I felt it was the last. I feel there can be
no more. Nothing laughed. And as it keeps laughing, I remember
a painting of curtains so lifelike, no one who looked at it didn’t feel
some new reality stirring inside them. Just look how the folds
now are starting to disturb themselves. As if about to catch fire.
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