Old ballgowns still blow around where the walls used to come alive. They still do  in a Matrix in flux. Leaning upon the air I do lean now like an old pirate, limping around with a cane of ebony to keep him sturdy. Silver light throws angels through screens in this scene. Just before you turn to feel the touch of it, what you see gliding by perhaps makes you uncomfortable, like the red wasp that I saw land on a woman that moved up her arm like a fake fingernail gliding up one’s fleshiness, then breaks off, rolls down the arm. Go on and feed me to the snide lions. Throw me into the Snake Pit. It doesn’t matter. I’m only the narrator. But this night is cold! Feel it pulsate like the cold heart of The Arctic that has a mind of burning thoughts. Misty Mysteriousness at the mind’s perimeter is a myriad of pyramids. Am I there yet? There when The Dead Sea was still “sick.” There where you can watch me in a vibrato sandstorm eating mountains of gulped air.  

Am I in myself / a private function of Identity? I am overthrowing the Ozone, this instantaneousness to be or to always be because I feel that gargantuan breathing of my Past just behind my shadow, as if my Future is intimateless and undefined, vanishing alongside the light that borders my fragile body in the sunlight as I move out of it. A body disappears with Death, but the phantasy of the Spectator is replicated by the imagination of the Creator when one concentrates on the emancipation of the mind—dared to be identified with Another? like bits of statuesque “Microbial Clouds” in words that touches only the outside of the ear like a whisper, unheard, felt only by breath, like fragile levees delicate before the break.