Scraping the Brain

And still if there couldn't have been a fox, a grey charter set against a receding plane so fouled and cracked its resolution is not even a scent memory. You'll get in where everyone else did, and by your own design and wit. There could be something worth hearing in the song after all, you think, or worth predicting. If its that therer were colors that stood in for favors, scenes constructed by a mind for details as much as for impulse, five steps would be little less than the same for seven -- you dig in a meaning for it, a proof clapped against the row of blackboards a mile long, raining a gentle cloud of dust to the scotchguard carpeting.

Problems that get solved too quickly risk failing to instruct, as in fact the speed of it suggests either excessive resource or in the end a lack of a tangible problem at all. There are always windows, and through them it is always possible to draw enough information so as to begin to tell a story. Seeing in through the molecules that span the distance is the clearest way to reach in, to grab something with no particular degree of tangibility and trying to bring it somewhere with contours and gradients. Not allowed were any of the sounds so familiar to break through the typical, or the lessening drive to mold it or them, tracking context in order to graft them on to the mobile idea. Living in a particular way, softness must be answered with asceticism, deny the id if possible, punish the body when not. There is a brain somewhere that can track the elements, the character of the black line on the white field, so that pinching closed the book conjures a hologram of the soul.

Anything can be made a personal design, adopted, co-opted, aped, inspired, the merit is irrelevant in the shadow of its contribution. Does this bring minds to unsought conclusions? Does it add real estate to the realm of the imagination?

To whom to we address our inquiries regarding what should come next? Beacons posting playful messages in an otherwise shrouded atmosphere communicate at enhanced speeds. The chemicals mingle and produce results subtly differnt from the norm. Honor is described on old papers boxed in dusty corners. They should be read once and for all but they are merely there, occupying thought and with the intention that they'd rest as resources, being unwilling to trust the mind to do the proper work of storing with prioritized accessibility, instead that information will always be missed, lost and found again with pleasant surprise when furtive interest grants fractured elements of the whole to be absorbed before distractions cause it to be abandoned again. In this manner the collection of items containing information are hoarded. But there are always more items of information to be encountered, nor is there a need to glean every pixel from every line.

If we leave they will crush us. They will leave faster than flight. Areas of the mind once loyal to the ambitions of the body turn mutinous. And all that is left of the vessel will fall from the current and drift slowly to the cold black crushing deep.

The house was dry, yellow walls thickened by unknown decades of paint, each new tenant transfixed to the present by the control they exerted on it.