What is words moor?

What is words moor?
An incipient con...
Surreal yet infertile.
Confausea despairend
writhing, deep discussing
disgusting confusion and
logic(k) unchecked.

The moment passes...

There was, a slow almost imperceivable shrinkage, walls; familiar relics accumulating dust and weight. Weight also manifesting in her little heart.
The days all had been leading here, to this point in time, of this she is certain.
To a pretty yet intricately chaotic shrine. A shrine that encapsulated her melancholic lethargy...
She sighs, swallows thickly. The moment passes.

I myself, aside myself...

Spreading of roots, vein-like
a bloody blossoming...
The exotic sort of sting she brings.
Complexity approaching pleasure.
Inhale...
Rinsing and wringing this heart.
I myself, aside myself
in this womb like self consciousness.

Seeded need...

The slightest greed growing in enveloping intensity,
the seeded need invested in the knowing of complexity.
Supposing a seeming abysmal singularity,
practices an escapism through inevitable polarity.

On the quiet...

On the quiet perhaps.
We could surreptitiously thrive
by a series of messages brief
and hastily filtered through
our idealised selves.
Cleansing and renewing
those versions of vows.
Forever faultlessly tender.

To my...

Moth of beautiful un-adorn
to my butterfly tart tattered palate...
Betwixt frilly and the fruity,
let us insects be...
Amongst the exotic inhabitants
in this curious cerebral hothouse.

into the new day...

Just view it bittersweet,
this delicious breaking.
Cracking of the egg
over dawn's horizon.
The skies experience
bleeding into the new day.

bend and not break...

What am I?
But to bend and not break.
Swelling into recesses
within the boundaries,
of your form limited.
You flow away free and
by a darkness and a glow
I let you...

Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...

This is a seemingly ancient piece now, but while doing some journal "spring" cleaning, I noticed that I never re-added the revised version. So I shall do that now.

Emily Herself gazes fixedly upon screaming baby.
From a perspective such as this;
it may appear baby has never been,
other than a screaming.
Emily Herself does, reserve a certain fondness for baby.
But more so out of habit than actual emotional attachment.
These years have been elongated years...
Emily Herself fixed, pinned to this wall.
This particulate moment, particular scene.
Baby hasn't much to do, with the essence Emily Herself,
of or relating to her minute discrete particles or substance.
Emily Herself minus baby.
It is merely within the line of sight.
Nothing more...it was not planned.
She methodically yet distractedly,
narrates the largely void and silently sentimental details.
Not much fussed with baby, is the girl.
Emily Herself seldom herself looks at the girl.
Only stares...stares, huge cavernous eyes at baby...
On subject of Emily Herself, it isn't terribly important.
Only Emily Herself to the girl, and therefore by proxy to me.
Emily Herself; thinks the girl, is one of those quaint names...
Ever so popular in the nineteenth century.
Conjuring up images of porcelain white suicide brides, abandoned altars.
Although Emily Herself, a plain woman she may have once been.
Has been lent a waning and frail bone pallid refinement.
The girl and her utter aesthetic contrast to Emily Herself,
is the primary reason she is so fascinated with Emily Herself.
The girl as Emily Herself with Baby,
has forgotten I'm here.
The girl is uncertain if Emily Herself is even aware of her existence.
She feels that her own awareness may be fading,
and may only be of significance in relation
to the admiring of Emily Herself.
That while defining Emily Herself,
She experiences a disintegration of her own persona and individual identity.
I often wonder, what The girl truly does see within Emily Herself.
What Emily herself represents for The girl.
The meaning of the silent daily observations.
I think it merely just exasperates the separateness of us all...
Baby, Emily Herself, The girl and I...

Restless...

A vexation is such,
that restless constant.
I shall be to decide,
forced between inky darkness utter.
And an all encompassing
particle piercing brightness.
Radiating like some demented beacon,
into night's insomniaic depths.
The conundrum lies within
an apparent phenomenon...
Where three sentences paradoxically,
seem equal to atleast three hours
of tedious sleep deprived dialogue.

smile...

smear on the smile and morning cosmetics
for these days each in succession/secession...
Were perhaps inappropriately appropriated
to certain pirouetting schedules.
Biding my time in queue.
Unfortunately the burden of my years are yet,
too heavy and full, did spill over their,
seething contents upon you undeserving.
I greatly fear and loathe for you to realise,
the dimensional actuality of all this ugliness.
The true proportions of my despair...
After all then retreat would prove blameless, necessary.

existential malaise...

Lost childhood, eating the metaphorical apple of consciousness. Taking the red pill, waking to the dawn of a cold barren existence...These objects/concepts they give me no substance.
My own created love turns traitorously against the heart which created it. We interact with senses of empathy, comradeship only as far as ensuring comfort, or suppressing suspicion.
Import and meaning are the coloured lenses in which we peer through life.
I feed this organic machinery; It wants to live. On some abstract level discerning only, that it is necessary.
I observe remotely from my tower, somewhat detached and resentful.
I am the depths of nausea and the presence of inertia.

of an ideal...

Why exalt,
one whose own morals and identity
rest so tenuously upon the shoulders
of an ideal which is fashioned
by fervor and dread.
Design and distraction to divert ones gaze...
For those who can not face a reflection
without the gauze like
veil of dogma.

elemental affinity...

It is for elemental affinity I ache
that fleshy earth's mingle,
salt in the blood and brine.
To tempestuous passions these soothe
upon drawn eyelids,
the red of sun through skin.
For the days dawn seeks
the subtleties of bird song.

The beat suns...

Rusty dull ache, yet blissfully hollow.
The beat suns upon and
downs late mundane summers.
Screeching yesteryears cicada songs,
lazy nostalgia of idle days...
Only the listless awaiting
yet unarticulated desires for fulfilment.
At a loose end and rattling about.
An old bolt in an old tin can.

Our Sunrises...

If I might bear the weight of the sun,
Prize free its grip, upon the tempting horizon.
Force sunset back, to travel east.
Sky up, I might.
If this orbit, I could cease into inertia
And thus, will a giant hand...
Send the Earth spinning re-verse,
To unravel time, like a ball of wool.
I might.
Alternately arranging our sunrises,
To better coincide.

Within the Bell Jar...

How can one call oneself a writer, when one doesn’t write? It is easier when your pronouns have an extra layer of anonymity. I personally don’t have trouble writing at all, neither do you, but if one did, they may question their validity as said writer.

I have been reading a lot lately, mostly craving the escapist indulgence of fiction, losing my own features in the involved internal dialogues of easily integratable protagonists. I call it “accumulating” which I suspect is closer to “procrastinating.” My hands are cold as I type, which seems to make it worse, as if my hands are directly manifesting the rigid sluggish motion of my mind. It goes like this:

I had taken my books back to the library; overdue as usual (I am a repeat offender.) So that night I find myself with no new material, and a yawning expanse of night to fill (do expanses always yawn, are they frequently tired as I am?) Well...I decided to delve into my own stagnant bookshelf, and chose a copy of “The Bell Jar” by Sylvia Plath, it seemed the time had come. I had had words with this book before, none of it eventuating to anything substantial. What with me being so heavily enamoured with “Ariel” I just couldn’t foresee how this could work out between us. But none the less, with the yawning expanse and my own lethargy I found myself settling down in bed with “The Bell Jar”, pulling the covers up high to my chin.

I read through with the familiar restless dissatisfaction, seriously contemplating the merits of this novel as “A near perfect work of art” (which I will proclaim now, are not words that I would attribute to this novel) yet something compels me through the storyline. The discomfort is insidiously creeping in, (this is how things happen... they creep, insidiously. Otherwise this would never have happened to you, or to me.)

I think one of the most unnerving factors about this novel, is the sort of, non-event of it. The material itself is not new to me, the subject, the types of experiences contained therein. I should explain that this could have been me to a degree, disregarding the particulars of character study, geographical location, at the core though, the coldness, the doubt, the yawning expanses, the insidious creep of non-event.

The suicide issue arose almost as a personal affront. Almost blackly comical in its genuine naivety, yet sickeningly she persists and I am granted both the outsiders perception as well as our own. Novels shouldn’t do this to me, it was really unfair to drag me through this whole affair and out the other end, to realise it was all a farce, well not all of it, perhaps only the end.

Suicides will do this, it is a disconcerting aspect. The lull at the end, it is the only way it is achievable really (for people like us.) The detached smile, the vague sense of improvement, perhaps this is why I worry about myself so much. This apparent improvement, before the plunge (this ensures no one suspects and or is looking at the wrong moment.) I can almost hear them uttering “but she seemed so much happier...healthier.”

I will eventually let these thoughts go, release them from me. I can hardly claim ignorance; I knew what she would do (safely on the edges of the pages, out of view of the sentences and paragraphs) when and how she would do it. It is a condition of the novel. I didn’t however expect it to cut so close to the bone, to have quite the icy after sting. So now I am full of sluggish words rousing in empty rooms, searching but not finding any true context to grasp upon...

Emily Patchwork Toille...

Emily Patchwork is a square girl, she resides even in a square house. All the interior world consists of right angles, corners and more corners...everything just so...all items in their place.

Long ago before her parents passed away in an orderly fashion, the entire house was planned and measured down to the inch...small notches and tiny tiny marks (in which one could only spy if one absolutely scrutinised and examined with a magnifying glass) that indicated exactly where this or that chair was to be located, or the immaculate hem of some rug.

One might think that because Emily's inherent nature was a little controlled fraying, and the fact that she held the many-a-generation family name of Patchwork, one just might think that within Emily lay the temptation, a tiny thread of yearning...

However the days were very much the same, they went about their methodical fashion as if bearing a life of their own, completely seperate from Emily.
The neatly portioned calender, which nightly and ritualistically she crossed off the days with a giant black cross, neatly as possible with out the ridiculous extremes of using a ruler...

However I must interject...this story is all out of linear order! One must begin at the logical start, the rise of the sun, and onset of day...In its expected position slanting across the
morning kitchen's black and white checkered linoleum...


Emily awakes. Opens her eyes, for this really is what is done in the morning. The 8:00am waking and opening. She wakes to the all familiar room, it is not her room though...well it is now, but it in fact used to be the bedroom of her late parents. This turn of phrase, which she finds faintly amusing as her parents would have never been caught dead "late" while alive...

She still in the grasps of sleepy-warm begins the process of clarifying her own identity and agenda for the day, languidly stretching rolls onto her right side, sits up. Then swings one leg after the other to the floor.

After establishing the concept of gravity, and willing herself to walk, she heads immediately toward the bathroom, to wash the night's dream chaos from her eyes and continue the ceremony of morning-ness.

Now upon the completion of grooming, certifiably wrestling the unruly wisps and tendrils, applying flannel and soap, and the oral hygiene daily plan recommended by the most qualified dentists (which includes, she will have you know; regular flossing.) She begins her descent down the perfectly 45 degreed angled staircase.

You may be wondering what the importance of any of these details are...surely everyone, if not a good majority of people begin their day in a very similar maner...you may wonder what the point to this narrative is.

I will tell you, but I am not sure if you will quite understand, or fully comprehend what it is I say to you. It is the oddity that every day she did this process exactly the same! Not one minute is
spared, not one movement overlooked.

In some respects Emily was entirely alert, within some confines of measure and meaning, but in another way she did it all with an unconscious almost somnambulistic ease, of the tried and true, muscle memory and incessant repetition.

Morning and tea...the words are lit up in her mind synonymous, smiling hand in hand like a snapsnot of bride and groom...thus in the small cupboard directly adjacent to the kettle, while absent mindedly grasping for the box of tea bags for the morning cuppa, Emily finds only her hand placed upon the cool flat, santised suface of the empty shelf, where the box ought to be but isn't.

If I was you; I would be prone to thinking, that this is where the story begins to fall apart at its binding, and chaos insidiously creeps within its margins...but in some skewed sense of reality, Emily is merely mildly perplexed, or should I say subtly unnerved in some indirectly indistinguishable manner.

She sighs and turns from the shelf...for the allocated time has passed for the tea preparation...yet there is also no tea to consume...

Upon this revelation I must confess; I am almost spiralling within voids of nothingness myself. Let alone considering how peculiar and utterly perplexing it must be for Emily.

Without the mug warm in hand, the kitchen itself seems different, there is an extra chill she had never noticed.

Emily shakes herself from this reverie. It really wont do to go on standing there, trying to hold the expected -yet-absent tea. Contemplating random observations of little consequence.

She moves through to a small room located on the side of the house to begin her sewing for the day.

Out of a tidy little basket, she pulls the pure unselfconscious white linen for emroidering, it is a small but elaborate piece, only a minute piece of a greater work...

She would like to tell you that her mother taught her how to embroider, or that she payed attention while her Nan, Matilda Patchwork (or "Tilly" for short) futilely attempted to teach her this intricate art...but if the ironic truth be known it is only something she learnt the art of in adulthood, from the women's magazine at the small corner store down in the town below.

Regardless it has been a good few years now, she has become relatively adept...enough so that she may make several pieces a week to sell from a small stall, in the aforementioned town, down the hill from the square house of Emily.

She stitches like an angel, if angels were apt to stitch... she thinks, delicate yet decisive... the two qualities don't seem to adhere in her mind though. They almost leave in their wake an ugly empty ring...

And in this momentary silence, she raises her head to gaze out beyond the window pane, at a windswept black, grey and green landscape...all the while continuing to stitch...feeling somehow lost and surreal.

A curious thing to note now, is that while I continue for Emily in this bizarre moment, and carry this story of sorts along its meandering way...For you the reader it is as if no time has passed at all, one sentence for you merely flows into the next...but you must realise, quite a few moments have passed for Emily, within such a small word filled space...

And the moment does pass...it is as if, it sort of fizzled out, lost momentum...just like that. No exclamation mark to indicate the end, or some great revelation...Perhaps at the most extreme a small sigh escapes her lips as Emily returns to peer at her needlework, now noticing however, the misshapen leaf, loosely swaying and precariously close to the edge.

Her cheeks flush considerably with frustration, and she thinks primarily of time wasted, and of how many of these small embroidery appliques she must complete before midday.

She tends to pride herself on her prescision, and timeliness, yet today...it all started with the teabags she thinks...no wonder she is a groggy and straying...

She begins to unpick her work, perhaps if she only re-sews the section she completed while mentally removed, out tumbling in the landscape with the wind and leaves...perhaps, she hopes, she can salvage the piece.
Haste makes waste, haste makes waste....and in this case injury as Emily has unwittingly pricked her finger...

The blood droplets and flourishes upon the seemingly virginal fabric, seeping and exploring the weave hungrily, consuming each fibre.
A sort of portentous exhileration overcomes her, she definitely does not understand its meaning...and such a small prick to create such expansive crimson blooms...




Emily retires that night with a cumbersome sense of dissatisfaction. She reviews the day as she believed it occurred, proceeding through this scene or that...like a hazy story board, out of coherent order, a mixed metaphor naively floundering its way across the page.

She experiences a sense of profound loss. Literal time lost, [while going about her daily activities,] and a more abstract loss of her character,[or plot direction.] She feels a little rinsed out and weak...or perhaps murky like recycled bath water.
Emily has always held a smug certainty in her ability to sleep at night. [As much else in her life, clockwork and reliable. ]But tonight... so like the day's missing teabags, she reaches out to find nothing. Only a gaping, starless obsidian void of unease.

At the death of her Mother and Father, which seemed to occur almost simultaneously. (Or perhaps it was that she secetly regarded them as the same person, so alike they were in character.) Even then, she had never once felt a moment of uncertainty or questioned the meaning of their deaths.

As their lives were faultlessly planned, so in turn were their funerals...and not one instant was appropriated to her own personal grieving.
And being not in the least inclined to late night cogitating, was completely unaccustomed to the distinct possibility of insomnia occurring. (Unlike the narrator who frequently gropes and claws her way through many a nights tedious elongating...)

Much shifting appears to occur after dark, deep cerebral landscapes and a whole manner of mysterious subliminal sleight of hand. It is a tricky, tricky place to find onesself caught vigilantly cognisant yet intellectually unscheduled.

If you are developing a bit of an impression of melancholic inertia, seedily loitering and lurking beneath each sentence...fear not...for




The new day finds Emily without the lingering desolate feeling of the previous day, she awakes as if upon an entirely new canvas...

Possibilities for the hours thereafter flutter amok in her mind like moths, she can barely contain within herself a certain sense of an event impending.

While ceiling staring, is when Emily notices the smallish hole above the bed.
She has to admit that she had never spent enough time, lying idly after the moment of waking to notice the existence of the thing, or the fact that it seems there is a sort of flickering light beyond.

It is a curious experience, when one spies a thing so unnervingly anomalous, in a room which one is so accustomed.
Blinking the sleep from her eyes, she waits for her sight to clarify and while still lying there, peers at the ceiling, and the appearance of the hole.

But either her range of view fails her, or the shifting light up there renders it difficult to determine exactly the dimension of the hole, or if it is infact a hole at all.

Childishly scrunching the bedclothes down with her legs, to stand haphazardly on the matress, attempts to get a closer look...heart beating ferociously with anticipation she is almost sure that somewhere there is a drum beating.

The years have taken their toll on the old matress and the lazy middle sag smile, which normally preoccupies her every morning, to propel her outward; is now the precarious balancing act she performs on trembling legs, neck craned upward.

She determines at this stage, that it does appear to be a hole, but it looks even more puzzling now, little closer. It looks rather different than a few moments ago. There seems to be some thing there...
On her toes and lightly steadying herself with her hand upon the wall, she again tries to look closer.

The surface of the object seems soft and slightly glossy...a sort of coloured sphere within a watery off white.
what comes to her find immediately is a marble. She knows somehow, this isn't right. Nausea and anxiety begin to flow inside her. Prickly with perspiration, she comes to understands that it is an eyeball. An eyeball gazing at her.


Emily stops breathing entirely. The most appalling lurch occurs in her chest. Her head sways.
And as if upon recognition of identification, the eye vanishes suddenly leaving the hole uniformly black and flat, as if something had been placed over it on the other side, Which it in fact had.

Her thoughts run rampant through her mind...she slowly crouches down, eyes unblinking, face expressionless. Her movements retarded and sluggish with horror.

I have to also mention that I too am somewhat in shock at the event that has taken place...
All the days before this point in time melt away from her, all the mornings and all the nights...thinking herself alone, how long has the eye's presence been there? How many unguarded and natural moments of Emily have been stolen with secret observation?

I suppose I really should feel more guilt, that this has gone on like this. I had though no idea, that the removal of the teabags would cause such a stir. Perhaps it was that after all this time I had wanted to be found out.

She was such a creature of habit, and it was just far too simple to exact her routine...To know at what intervals to be utterly silent, at what times to creep down the ladder within the false walls of the next room, and into the house...

And for whom else in her solitary life, would be there to record, to take account of all Emily's moments?
For Emily Patchwork was a square girl...

Dear Diary,

Today I shall continue to manifest my complex subconscious process of death anxiety. By continuing to blatantly anthropomorphise you as my comforting presence.
To sporadically record my mundane activities until the day that I cease to be.
If I am writing to you my dear personified diary; I most certainly crave less, a witness.
Other than those inevitably haphazard and often anonymous readers, to pour over these words with remote curiosity at this singularly isolated existence.

It is raining again...

It is raining again, and I am thinking too much. There seems to be a mild chill in the room. I sit here, listening to the distant sirens beyond and attempt to gauge their distance. They do seem to be coming closer, ...It is no matter, I can hear that they have moved past. I type on...

It has been raining a lot lately. And you see, I don't have a car. If I want to go anywhere I must use "what God gave me." Snickers to myself. There is no point beginning all that, God is dead. One either clings to the remains, or not...I shrug to no one and it rains.

And so the last few days, I have gotten soaked just on a trip to the supermarket.
I have to say, I feel anxious a lot lately...because of the rain.
The rain also means that it has taken days longer for the landlord to have the fence
extended down the side of the house. I awoke the other day, to the sound of sawing, hammering. I guess I will enjoy the extra privacy it will provide, however all this rain,
and their digging...I don't like them digging around out there.

It is raining much harder now, I can hear it, turning it all into mud, getting right into
the dirt, loosening things up. I peer out the window briefly into the grey wet day. I have work later on today, I must remember that. I can not stay here all day, with the door shut tight, ruminating and brooding over the weather.

I turn on the heater, get back into bed and make myself a sandwich. I always buy food I can make and eat in the privacy of my room.
I prefer not to be in the kitchen, even when the flatmates...the flatmate isn't home. It
makes me anxious. I don't like him looking at me, watching me cook. I don't like him
watching me eat. So I stay in my room until the time comes to go to work.

I normally hear his morning traipse down the hall, and first to the toilet, and then into the bathroom for a shower. I will hear the hot tap turned on, then the squeak of the cold shortly after. I know he will leave the bathmat on the floor again, soaked. It has developed a nasty inky black mould. I do not want to touch it.
This morning I did not hear any of these overly familiar morning noises. However after the late, late night I had, it doesn't surprise me. I must have slept through.

It rains, and my cheap fan heater rattles. I have a headache from the wine last night,
and a feeling of increasing anxiety. I don't normally tend to drink at all these days.
Makes me crazy. Well to be fair, once I get started I tend not to be able to stop. I only
had a few wines...a little more... and he was far drunker than I, even at the beginning
when he invited me into his room to "listen to music." I don't know why I accepted.
I guess it was the way he invited me, instead of coming to my room, knocking on my
door...invading the sanctity of my bedroom, he very non intrusively texted me, on my
cellphone. I remember peering at the text for a few moments, then impulsively
deciding to do it.

I was wearing my pijamas at the time, it was late...he had obviously been into town,
and failed to attract the attention of any ladies... So I hurredly changed my clothes,
sprayed myself with deodourant. I didn't manage to shower yesterday...I just sat
around in bed, debating in a online forum.

I went down to his room, the nice room. The room I would like to have for myself. It
is much larger and has a beautiful view of the sea. The door was open already, so
there was no need to knock. I could hear music playing...
I walk in somewhat awkwardly and sit on the far end of the couch. He says Hello, and
I can tell by the slurring of his speech that he is very intoxicated. I really do not like
drunk people, and I always think, the only way to tolerate drunk people, is to be
drunk yourself. So that when he offers me a generous red wine, I accept.
And to be honest, I have never been an appreciator of wine, I tend to throw the stuff
down my throat, and forego the whole "tasting" experience...he is telling me that the
wine is expensive. I am thinking that I don't care.

I feel much more relaxed, we talk about the music on his computer because there is
nothing else to talk about. We don't have a lot in common...I refill my glass, the wine
is a very dark red. He begins to ask me what music I like. I can't really be bothered
prattling off long lists, I mention a few names, and we go back to discussing his music.
He hands me the bottle and I refill my glass, realising only now that it is again empty.

I think his music is boring, I want to talk about something else. I am becoming
argumentative...I know it is the effects of the alcohol...yet I continue anyway. I strike
up a conversation about psychology and mental illness. It is obvious he has little idea
what I am talking about, which I guess makes me feel smug.
I am getting much drunker now. I am starting to feel sloppy and out of control. It
takes me a lot longer than it should have to realise he is leering at me, talking
inappropriately. He asks me if I am a "cold girl"...I don't understand immediately that
he means "frigid". I am at a loss of what to say. I was not expecting this at all, for some reason. It has caught me totally off guard. I try to pretend I don't care, which maybe he has mistaken for vague approval, or a chance....

His words are extremely slurred now...I feel strange....I am drinking the wine fast, I
ask if he minds if I finish the bottle, he laughs derisively. He seems to be having trouble focussing his eyes on me.

I upend the bottle and pour the contents down my throat. I am feeling its effects in a
big way, I begin to sway. He goes to stand up, and lunges at me hands out, I think to
assault or molest me. But he is really only grabbing for my shoulder to steady himself.

But it is far too late, I have already begun to swing the bottle downward in a sharp arc
upon his head. He gives a sort of yelp of surprise and pain, and topples to the floor,
sending his laptop sprawling and shattering his wine glass. He begins to get up, and I
could not tell you quite what came over me, but I raised the unbroken wine bottle,
and brought it down again on his head hard, and again and again...I didn't realise a
wine bottle could be so tough, I had expected it to break by now, unlike his head
which seems to be bleeding more and more with every blow...From a detached
distance I vaguely think about blood on the carpet...

I am not sure how to use this cellphone really, not much of a texter. I scroll through
the contacts list, enter the name I require...two names actually mine being one of
them.
"goin awy 4 da w/e, nt sur wen il b bk." Send the message. It is not easy to push the
buttons when not quite touching the phone, and his phone is a lot fancier than mine,
it will be a shame to have to dispose of it...

I can hear them hammering again out there today...I had thought they were finished.
I feel sick. It has stopped raining though, I guess it makes sense. And it was
convenient for them to leave their equipment here over night, and now that I think
about it...the rain has smoothed away the recently disturbed soil...
I say these things mostly to calm myself. The wall seems so thin to me just now. I
almost feel they are aware of me here, and are even able to hear the striking of each
of these keys...

To feel...

It is rather remarkable the brain's ability to not feel, I have spent many an hour contemplating this abstract grey numb slab, this meaty blossoming. Almost smug in its lofty position. And yet through this lacking, this absence of sensation is created the most profound ability TO FEEL.
My heart lurches, the mind thinks. Secreting these thoughts to ooze like bile. Stretched out for science to examine. But what does science see, when it casts its gaze upon me?
Personified and peering through lenses, are they shades of grey as my pre dawn or startling static blacks and whites progressing through my ambiguity to cold functionality? The future, it is streamlined and gleaming. This is the promise,
though I see nothing which clarifies this position, only more subjection.