After the concept of the Zone in the film ‘Stalker’, based on the book “Roadside Picnic”.
A prologue emerges… the merest shiver and like beauty you are awake, you are seen.
Wearing a state of mind like a cloak of tall grass.
You are a criminal from your living, yet the rain cleans your face as bright as it could for anyone.
You acknowledge a tilt. Gravity has whispered across the hillside and all fluids about you smear headward.
Sink and deepen like them. Further and further to become the whisk and musk, the shape and stain of prayers for jewels and linen. As a bruise, hang your lies like traitors and like guests. The ceiling of your bunkhouse is as ample as the field.
Look about at all the evidence of how you came to know much about why this life resembles a grinding disappearance. A dismantled landscape of conditions of vapor and rays. Stranded, but not stuck, though perhaps as weak as a wave. Spreading like a cancer of obstacles.
Work. School. Home. Time. Expectations. Death. Another death. More than these next fourteen machines to crowd a consciousness conquered by a narrative. Hovering collections of calculations…
…the music begins. The songs have titles but they were first heard long ago…
Only your hum is left to rearrange these melodies.
Chances summon. We must assume we are prepared.
Thinking of everything and thoughts of extraneous else are exhausting. Attach a laugh, become exhilarated with me.
It was a new month. The lake of trash bloomed in my sight and I became comfortable carrion within. Leaked into the net of radical decay. I was a wish, a pact, held between friction and erosion. A museum of scrapes and breaths… that’s me.
My tears are tiny homes of lint and spit.
Nature opens a portal hitherto unseen and I enter it as air enters a wound.
Silence is the stage where light can attach its own echo chamber.