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// ZACHARY SCOTT HAMILTON

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i.| Right mind departure

What is half of zero?

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____________ A Theater of Eyes, Mountain Top Silhouette, Two Die

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School boy: cold cattle ___________________________________________________________ Involved in smoke stains, hangovers, and cattle led by a  picture of eyelids, by the clear light wreathed in the deepest memory of the eyes, Isacc was on a mission.  The mission stenciled by the eyes in a miniature frame of  reference, carried by the bag of bones and hooves, without  insides, crossing into the street. Absolutely no entrails gathered, shall it be mentioned later, rather peeking out on a cow with no insides, on a sign for  Halsey Boulevard glowing in the ominous daylight, Isacc and  Lex wander. Putting off gray clouds, oil paint in paint thinner drizzles,  leaking into the dead dollar bill trees. The Blvd. lay prone  against a filthy alley, stained of bone and tissue and  separations (modular) as though excerpted from a modern  witch doctor’s study of lobotomy.  The Boulevard, built entirely of one­dollar bills, rips apart  beneath cow hooves as they walk through town.  A schoolboy hangs in a swing, chattering the links a little story:  “Boxes made from the wood of his closet. They are made from  dust from yet wrapping is peeled away from the seams, like  horse manure, like we saw in the whistles in the sun last 

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winter,” he whispers, “Things that lay inside are protected from  the influence folded up in tissue paper, one by one, encased in  gold, protected from the elements, like Christmas.” He thinks,  pushing off of the ground with one shoe.  “A dog goes scratching at the lock, his little friend Issachar  egging him on.  He’s laying out on the crafty boxes in the closet,  my love.”  The chain links separate and come together.  “There  was a ball tied up in ropes made of old socks,” He thinks of this  as the cow wanders down the stained alley of Halsey blvd. whimpering the tears of crying snow, a camera of the rain, wandering through a lone disciple of gathering dollar bills. 

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Cookie cutter/mathematician(A)/ ___________________________________________________________ A part of the cattle is snowed through too often now, and  shattering the snout falls off to a stack of dollars, solid chunk of  frozen muscle, fur and bone.  And he wasn’t trying to piece  back the torn up old nylons that underwear stays attached to,  which his laser suit handed him, yet riding the shattering bull  in the danger of being caught gives him (8­bit: a bit of) an ulcer. Mighty as a whimpering flesh bag could – Isacc studies the  bulges from a spackle job, circa 1965, taken from his intestines  further, creating the picture of black and white walls and finger  prints. An inside view of a city from the towns dark beginnings of the  theater, disguised as a schoolhouse set across the swings.  “The light is on above the bed and it’s been on for three or four  days, following a version of a secret illumination.” He climbs to  the clock searching for veins in a digital city. Veins and all, there is 3:36 A.M. and frozen socks catering to him and his  silver hands clutching the giant diamond necklace the cattle  wears always. The boy whispers to the chain links, watching it unfold before  him. With cotton eyes and laser suit, Isacc (a good little camera 

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face) uses zoom to see the cow’s fragile layer of veins, inside.  “Let’s see,  I saw no resistance as he lowered four fingers and a  lazy thumb to the passive anger of cold cotton and blood.” He  whispers, watching.  ( This is the beginning of another sped­up  nightmare, fast shots of a slow death growing, inhuman.) “She hasn’t spoken to him in hours now and the snow freezes  her capillaries. I’m watching him, watching the back of her  head, at the diamonds hanging around her thickness, her  neck.”  Isacc growls, as the sickness brings out a silence in her, the  shattered parts of the cow,  frozen, falling off in sections until  he is standing in a pile of dollars and bones and ice and blood.  He thinks of her silence and wants to remind himself,  by  replay,  with the camera he has grasped inside those quivering (glazed donut) hands rolling, loaded with super eight films.  He cries.  The blood knows you, Sarah; His tears turn to snow, light  powder falling through him and the thousand of them know  you, Sarah.  I am next on the list in the ice with you,  shattered in dollars  with you.  Hair is still looking at him, and then to the window,  dropping  snow from his ice lids,  rubber fingers flick routes  (clotted,  packed snow) out to protect them. As it’s made to, as they  always did.  The schoolboy watches Sarah and Isacc die, telling his little  story:  “Sarah turns, flinging her blond and black dread locks into the  red buttoned pillow case, and reaches for the stars.” The school  boy presses his foot into the dirt, swings, watching his suit  shoes drift over the grooves in the pebbles. 

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“Can I have a drag?” Sarah demands, assuming he will give her  a cigarette. A hand flickers, still bent into the corner of an  awkward ash cigarette position. Lex glares past his obscenity  and she asks again, Can I have a drag of your cigarette?” He sees that she isn’t interested in the ridiculous posture he is  trapped behind, a worm in two panes of glass, a worm in a  window.” The boy whispers to the chains. “Oh,” The worm says, “Yeah,” it says jolting its rubber wrist  and handing her pinched fingers. She takes the burning  tobacco from him,  she pulls it into her mouth and looks over at him, handing the thing back.”

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Hologram mountain::  System of eyes on a door to the school house ___________________________________________________________   The child stops swinging and steps into the grooves, watching pebbles as they crumble into partitions, as they  section tiny factories and the faces of old men, following every  subtle step to the dollars, crumbled and soiled. A glitch occurs,  across the whole street, a wave of electricity passes through  stomach level, and following to chest level,  neck level, cutting  out parts of the dark, Gothic buildings and the schoolboy. A  segment of town folds over in a warped computer generation.  The line appears then disappears and the boy ­ head down ­  watches his sued shoes kick up the dollars in slow­mo.  Still telling himself the story.   “She speaks with a young Sarah ((GLITCH))GLITCH Lex voice,  m(GLITCH))maybe seven or eight now.” He says; he imagines  her as he climbs a  dark, grave street of bills, picturing the  hospital room, her thick matted hair.  A cigarette juts from her  rose petal lipstick. He shuts his eyes, walking slowly and passes  two frozen piles. “What is that little girl cover you’re pulling over your  head,” He asks her; schoolboy imagines a girl lost in giggles  hiding beneath a baby blue wool blanket. 

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Frozen dollars of the cold streets tailor schoolboy up into the  mountains, beyond the lecherous houses of the town.  “A shard of ice in the hyper hungry mouth of death,  what is it that falls from the sky? Is it the language of rain?” He wanders (a subtle blur) along black hills, through the static  clusters in the mountains, combing back his soaked boy hair in  his pale hands, and spying a row of trees rising behind the fog.  He couldn’t remember where anything was, after inventing its  whereabouts, the intestines of a stray formula matured into the  city, the thought leaping from within still watching his shoes as  they gathered rain water, wandering through the simulated  memory cog, a deaf silhouette. One reminiscent of the odor  Cedars put off. 

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Dream theater School house ___________________________________________________________ Isacc lays in the theater waiting for Lex in the overcast  light of the window. His eyelids flicker, a flash film of cognitive  shown: Schoolboy the killer head, stuck down on a stick and­ “I’m in the forest at a large gathering of people.”He says,  his eyes shut tightly fighting the rain. He slicks his black hair  over his pale forehead. “I find a kite, I think to fly it, yelling down at the crazy  barrage of colors below.” Covered by thistle and bramble and  weeds, grown over through time, covered by the stained glass of  a church bell and a slender wall Isacc views the inside of a  theater.  “Widen in there, behind my eyes.” I’ve died and went to  the theater.   Someone big, a silhouette in a tree line on a mountain watches  him, hiding in the wall of eyes, a little boy with thin black hair  and giant foreheads (there is no­thing to shield a wall of eyes). Sniffs around the theater. It reminds him of freshly cut Christmas trees, the ones Isacc  used to receive gifts under in other lives, a Cedar tree in here. 

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What’s a Cedar doing here? Panning left to right, a section of green carpet is focused on. Carpet here, carpet there. Isacc (a good little camera) focus's on  the carpet, green, standard green.  (Eyelids touching ­ eyes focus ­ massive blinking ­ folding over  one another ­ green in front and black in back, eyes watching  through eyes, watching him.) There are two doors on hinges, rusting on the screen. In the  theater, doors on hinges screwed, nailed swing open and he  hears a laugh track on the speakers and his cue is to laugh  with them.  Faces and eyes and eyelids ­ Darkness coats mountains, the whole damn town, graves the gravestones, unmarked the dollars, drifting by in the wind. A gray cloud covers this all,  closing over that wanton school boy, who charges down the hill  so fast, slapping away through dreary woods to the street, into  dollars, grimy green, to the schoolhouse, like a good schoolboy. The street sign (Halsey blvd) glimmering in the moonlight,  letters flashing green reflect off whites and the wall of eyes  swings open. The school house doors have come a jar.   **** 

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_______ Dream theater, polar bear, green carpet

Green carpet:: Copper pennies] __________________________________________________ Twos and threes carve through your mind in this room. The numbers have no meaning, but staring into them, they turn and turn. A schoolboy enters the theater, blossoming into a handful of blind paper and torn pieces, so awfully sudden that boy. A shadow blinds me too, paper falls to the floor, stagnant a moment, wiggling. The shadow of my wrist and fingers sneaks in through

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my vision. My heart for a moment flutters butterfly wings to the roof, tattering to the floor at last like a blind paper petal. I can’t see, no doors, no screen, nothing. “They’re on motors, connected to a timer. That’s the only way.” Famous last words... The butterfly evaporates. “This been a puzzle to be mathematically, geometrically or scientifically figured out.” The doors hang open, letting in the frozen dollars. Last thought; puzzles. The schoolboy appears at the door and stands silently. He can hear it having a seizure, the motors for the doors, for the screen. There’s a tea bag melting on a woven lawn chair. It snows lightly outside, and he reaches for the door handle, closing the spasming door. The light runs out of here, its angle almost perfect as it escapes just barely out of the wall and the eyes, as if in peephole slats, folding out from their casings and hiding inside as the film starts. Steady and ominous gray light comes in through an ornate pane glass window on a far right wall. The trees are a dark, vague, bent line, cutting up through the gray sky. The iron peephole eyelids shut, rolling over retina, a heat warms the inside. On a movie a sliding glass door is open and a blanket’s out harboring rain in water and spider eggs, bugs, wood chips, a wheel chair in a mirror. An orange armchair soaking in rain, puddles gathering in the button folds, in the seams of a peat moss pot. The carpet in the house green, I walk over it, to the glass door, lighting a match and pressing it to a candle. “Hello? Is anybody there?” I say, fumbling with the long wick as someone would a table and chairs, a mouse-tail, or a date seed.

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Green carpet. Wax falls out, settling in through the fibers. The boy sits in the woven lawn chair, careful of the tea bag if it’s wet or not, and he notices the forty different peepholes on the door. The iron lids are shut around the circular obelisk. Pennies melt into the carpet from the wax candle.

My lines:: Dream theater __________________________________________________ All framed in movie screen, I say my line. “Death is so subtle,” leaning to touch the melted copper in the mint green carpet. Vomit green edges line the holes opened by the copper. My next line: “The eyes of the carpet,” I feel over the pupils, over the lids, over the fiber, leading my hands over them, a blind man.

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“Wall of eyes, square with brilliantly punctured circles.” I say my next line. I light my cigarette and smoke it fast, closing the glass door leading out to the porch. The cigarette's been behind my ear this whole time while watching the candles melt. The copper candles… The schoolhouse glows in dreary afternoon light, and he looks out through the paisley jigsaw puzzle frame, at the trees blowing dollars off the limbs and yawns covering his tiny boy mouth. There was this one time that I missed the “lady fire eyes” show as my cigarette hid from my fingers under the chair, outside my backyard is always full of surprises like this. “Lady fire eyes" is supposed to be my favorite show, it is written in the script. My bladder is full and I got to see “lady fire eyes” or the scene is cut, so, I sit down in the living room and try to remember my cues, “Lady fire eyes” his favorite show, that’s all I need to remember, okay. I fiddle with the prop remote and television comes on. That familiar awful frequency hums the sound of a lucky rabbit’s foot on chalkboard. Blinking eyes and shutter show, Lady Fire eyes. I’m trying not to show it, but I’ve got to piss so badly. The urine’s burning in me, it feels like it has leaked over in my fat, pooling in the cells, I almost miss my cue and remember to laugh. This is my favorite show. I laugh again, completely natural, totally believable. I can’t miss it, but I’ve really got to urinate, badly. That’s not in the cues or the movie for that matter. My bladder is going to turn into an art film, 56 minutes of

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gouged balloons in an array of medicinal colors, a whole cabinet of anti-psychotic', antidepressants, amphetamines, the "D.E.X” (the red pill pouring from latex balloon skin inside me). This is what is going through my head as I play my character in “Portal to humans,” A neat little feature under the direction of D. Lincoln Selma. I can’t miss the show; I’ll be fired immediately. “Lady fire eyes,” “Lady fire eyes,” “Lady fire eyes,” I say in my head, trying not to picture leaking valves, water falls, the red pills pouring out of gouged bladder. “Cut!” “Oh, thank God!” I shout to a confused group of bustling people. Running through cast and crew cluttered around back of stage, into the makeshift bathroom in the makeshift house, the sounds of flickering plastic stick to his mind. Schoolboy, all he sees is the next scene of the movie, after a moment in dark screens, the way they pasted one moment to the next in editing. Door belt having a seizure, white urine drains from my bladder into the makeshift toilet, while white makeup is put on my wrists and hands. “Action!” Sitting in the same worn out foam green sofa again, I’m dragging my hands through what hair they have allowed me to have for this film, I say my line: “What?” I mutter, perfect, subtle tone. The boy shifts in the lawn chair, studying the screen. I look around the makeshift room, careful not to strain my neck.

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Makeshift boys room, posters, video game console set up on the floor, TV, Lady fire eyes comes on and I act interested. My eyes are focused on, my lips, the camera’s go through cues.

Polar bear:: __________________________________________________ Opening, the peep hole covers fold off of multicolored eyes on the door. The boy slicks his hair to one side and looks over at them scanning his direction. Rolling back and forth, the silhouette of his brain exposed in the light coming through a dirty window. Where he adjusts his weight in the lawn chair, making squeak sound and can see himself (through a pair of eyes in the wall) doing that. Silhouettes of his brain cased in clear fluid, clear skin, clear see though hair is examined. He makes a bunched up face, distraught by this. It appears gray in

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his scalp, functioning on some kind of faint, oblivious subconscious level. He sees as the brain tenses up on the right side, where he’ll suddenly move his foot and kick it over the other leg. And then, there is a pounding sound from one of the walls in the theater. It could be a knocking hand, one that is confused if they are knocking or running, accidentally, into the door. Schoolboy doesn’t know. The peep hole covers droop back over, relaxing shut. The lawn chair and the movie screen, the window, ornately carved in paisley and the knocking, a vibration, pounding away like a nail at a construction site, like a nail pounding through iron, explosive and repetitious, but then with no rhythm suddenly. Frozen stiff with fear the little schoolboy holds his pale, cotton hands together, watching his breath as the room becomes colder. Cash is sneaking in through the cracks in the floorboards beneath the wall of eyes. A five-dollar bill passes through the high door seal. The pounding gets rougher, violent abstract and definitely not human. A sort of mans voice is heard on the other end, shouting. For a moment the boy puts his hands to his face and rubbing his eyes, begins configuring a half decent start to a plan. Suddenly the odor of urine wafts into the schoolboy’s nostrils. He looks down, and sees piss darkening his dark blue suit pants, at the same time ominous gray daylight and dollar bills rush into the room as the door of eyes slams against the adjacent wall. He recognizes it, a beast he learned of in school one time. Frozen solid, he gets into one of those “life flashes before your

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eyes things,� he sees Selma, his decrepit grandmother catching a fish with her bony wrinkled hands as the large white bear lunges. He sees Selma pulling the fish from the hook, the poor thing leaking a small drop of dark blood. She just rips the hook out and sets the thing down like a watermelon, or a potato, hitting the fish over the head with a large gray rock. The bears fangs are covered with blood and it enters the theater, panting. Standing up on its hind legs and wandering to the lawn chair, it swipes the dinky thing to the side and shouts. Now hiding behind a black curtain near stage, schoolboy watches as the great Bear ransacks the place, crashing into boxes and swiping them until crushed thoroughly. Hazelnut wood seal saturated once on the stage reflects schoolboy almost as clear as a mirror. He looks down and sees himself, in a fetal position standing up. The Bear growls and scrapes things aside, the lawn chair, boxes, and cans of film stray across the wood floor. He perches near the screen, and sniffs over schoolboy, pupils the size of its whole eye. Little schoolboy can smell his own gaping open fear, as it wafts up from a basket of butterflies near his suede shoes. Dollars drift in, carried by a careless gust of wind. Suddenly the bear takes a turn that had been unanticipated by schoolboy, leaving an open shot straight to the door. He watches the polar bear from behind the screen, checking the door, and then runs out, swinging the wall of eyes shut, bear shut inside. Over wind tossed piles of dollars, he runs to the swings and rushes a mixed version of the story to the chain links, watching his predator’s cub lurking outside near the schoolhouse window. After mentioning the wall of eyes, he watches the cub climb

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away into somewhere invisible to his eyes, and no bears anymore, he glimpses a pile of bones and flesh lying across the street covered in ice and dollars. A wind shoots through town, picking up fives and twenties and brushing him on the shoulders. He runs, disappears into invisible darkness, swallowed up from somewhere behind him, to nowhere, and the town is quiet. In the distance groves of pines and cedar trees sway back and forth, subtle shades of green against a wall of painted gray for a long time there is the sound of wind coursing through everything, eating up the dirty dollars from out of the street and spilling them through the air. A segment of discolored lines cuts a glitch out of the chest and eye, and tooth level, followed by a missing sound, one that represents the sound in a place where nothing exists, where “nothing� is even something and where there is far greater absence of nothing, than nothing.

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___________________________ Punctures, segments, chambers

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:: Sectioned out __________________________________________________ I keel over, wrapped inside a blanket woven in darkness that is dappled with stars. Threads, once symmetrical, Lead an area of light From my vision, (coated thick In fur) to the frayed Edges of the blanket. Eyes That see beyond there, the Frayed edges, gather warmth. Another star-speckled darkness, one generated of space, Is touched by the cold mucus which drains from my nose to low metal, represented by a frequency, nothing solid aloud to exist, yet,anything complex as an element appears behind this, this blanket of darkness. There is what I gather as me(a stream of consciousness made up of darkness, absence of light, color, symbols, strung along an axis of light). A frequency is barely legible but observable somehow. Nostrils to cimmerian steel. A frequency evaporates in the verbal iron, creates a darkness from its behind, evaporates In frequency, created, propels me forward In a wonder worm. The long dark moments warp and turn to no. The white paper of no [This nothing] This absence of darkness,white black, the vice-versa crumbling forward. Frayed blanket, stars, white paper.

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There is still what I gather to be me, could come close. White, still thing, No What comes before the no is still a thing - something, the anti absence of a thing. Infinite no – This kind of nothing before no one, before the infinite no. It looks like something. It is white, it is on a plain and it surrounds me.

Seventy million miles away on a strange arctic island in the Gothic Town of Acacia, there stands in a far reaching section these Ivy eaten mansions, one of which Schoolboy lies in segments (One part being an ear in the basement, one part eyes in the attic, scalp and hair in the upstairs bathroom.) Resting, (his mind in the living room, sitting out in a china dish, floating in warm fluid, his arms in the sink in the kitchen, his legs resting on the stairs to the attic). Pelvis in the love seat, spleen in the shower, lungs out back in an old chest under the falling leaves of a willow tree. Teeth in the downstairs bathroom, placed in a row of dentures inside the crystal grandmother glasses. The rest of the schoolboy’s face has been separated from his eyes, teeth and scalp,(VIEWED IN “THE PROCESS OF ELIMINATION” AND SET UP ON THE FLUFFED BLUE PILLOW IN THE BOYS RADIO FLY-ER BEDROOM< ALONG WITH HIS SUIDE SHOES< BLUE UNIFORM WITH A BUTTON ATTACHED< WHICH READS “SLEEPING BABY”).The 1950’s version of the phone rings, green lacquer finish vibrating side to side,“bring bring bring..” It rings next to a pair of segmented hands resting on a doily under the old phone. From the wrist to the finger tips, the hands shiver to life, (slowly at first) Flailing into the receiver and then lifting the antique phone off of the base. And then dropping the phone accidentally to one side, resting near the base of the phone. With no eyes, mouth, teeth or brain there is no way to respectfully Answer. Cloud coverage against the sun bent sky prints clouds

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on my blanket, cut out to fit my fumbling body within, (now back to life in my laser suit) with my rubber grips around the fire of a small sun at the frayed edges of darkness-The phone receiver lies on one side, green against woven cream doily. BEEP, BEEP, BEEP, BEEP. Many layers of sky turn into the wire and down Through the phone as a series of beeps, representing a dead line. BEEP, BEEP,BEEP, BEEP. One of the segmented hands clutches its fingers over the receiver Picking it up, under the gray light of day coming through the living room window. Setting the phone on the green base and resting again, over the doily on the wood end table.

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Fallen through:: __________________________________________________ Sting from above Where the clouds turn to water,I wake in the rain, falling slow from space. The metal underneath me soaks into my thighs, butter on butcher knives as I crash through the third floor somewhere. (An abandoned house lingers in fog near a grove of dollar trees). Flashing’s of submerged white light strobe before my eyes, blocking my view. I pull my hands to my throbbing head, watching white light pulsing in me and as it exits through somewhere inside my head, casting shadows over the area before me. I can’t feel pain but see that shards of the rafter wood stick through me, holding me by my thighs. And that there is a lot of blood taking trails down the broken cedar beams punctured in the floor of a house. Overcast sky from the gray outdoors Is the light, it comes in through the Hole in the roof where I must have Landed from a fallen picture in the sky, pouring into the earth like a concrete statue of a man, (except for one that is lit on fire). I can’t tell if it’s a song I hear in the distance over the grove of trees or if this is just sharp buzzing inside my ears, inside my head,

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ringing into an elaborate orchestration of impact, (I mean hitting down so hard, I should be dead). Where did I even come from? I wish I could move. These damn beams! I try tugging the splintered Dust and old spider infested Wood from my sliced butter thighs but they don’t budge. Long awaited and secretly tombed screams of ancient tongue barrel out of the lung case below a strained chin and chipped tooth. The far edges of dry space lips crackle under the Berlin wall, crumbling down in the rubble, in the far reaches of white time. It’s as if I’m watching all of this on video tape set inside a flurried memory. I remember standing in a box door, inhaling my future into a scattered sidewalk, all darkness and one light from the door, drifting in through FYI rain.(Mountain peak peeking eyelids) A stop light peeks into my open box door, out from where I am standing, some side street passed out nine ways from narcoleptic steps, the stop light between my lips turns into crumpled paper ashes, waves of fog roll over me, a random memory error from overstimulated brain shell. I strain to get up, and peek the mountain thoroughly from the snow simulation, even down to the compacting of the snow, the thing gets it right. Some one on foot approaches me from the north. The fog, it invites itself into the room, past my shoulders, it weaves in quickly through my hair and hands and wounds and the temperature drops. Another long awaited shouting erupts from within the lung case below, shattering the fog over my head where it fills back in again, a bottle of fresh latex paint, surrounding my body and closing in around the thigh fillet. Outside the house, on Halsey Blvd. near the schoolhouse ,wind is pulling down one dollar bills from the dark black

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trees. It carries them into the air above the swing sets and sets them down in a bleak forest near the school boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s residences. The forest follows suit, dropping fives to the forest floor. Tens and twenties pile over ones and fives, folding over in a dreary dance. Office Buildings::Ship __________________________________________________ A violent breath cuts through the woods from god knows where, sending dollars deep into the blurring distances, a kind of chase occurring at some base level consciousness, farther and farther away from the main BLVD, the crisp dollars freshly fallen from their branches fly fast into a great darkness, lingering at the edges of foot paths. From the attic window up here, I peek, watching as the wind tosses thousands of dollars into a dark ravine of ivy eating trees. And I wonder of Lex, where she is, how the snow running out of her eyes had killed her so suddenly, do her diamonds still embrace her strong neck or has she infinitely, become like me, stuck legs punctured through with splintered beams, or has she has passed on, into life elsewhere, someplace outside of town, out of generated time. Maybe she found factory farm, where she can do her reality engineering. Picturing her alone behind a desk crafting maps with her giant

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hooves, doing her segmenting and isolating of bovine into mechanically separated packaging preparations, the information maze, I imagine she is lonely without me there. I am defiantly lonely without her. My jeans are soaked through to the outside, and watching I see blood drift down through the open hole in the roof, it covers me, so that now I do not recognize where my legs are and some hundred thousand surrealistically built office buildings make up the gray space, my mind is purposefully filling it all in. Chambers caved into thin rectangle shafts pass over fog, turning slow before a base sphere that appears, revealed only from its emanating light sources there within; the sphere of all future office buildings, spinning slowly in the fog, attachments long and thin from the most impossible facets. Chambers emitting light pass by in front of my vision and the fog dissipates softly as the offices slow to a stop before me. There, ever so slightly the fog closes in over parts of the mechanism like clouds turning it invisible and speakers sound, buzzing into stagnant air compact, leaking symbol, foreign scribble enters the air, moves away, the fog in yellow glow in my vision. Glitch passes over the whole generated town, over the symbols over the fog and everywhere the lights in the offices burn out at once. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s muggy, uncomfortable, and stale. I sit here noticing my feet have healed back to normal, and my thighs are no longer punctured through and my hands are

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working properly within the rubber laser gloves. Some large dark window screams “5013100!” The voice sounds human. I am in an office. It’s cold, stale and uncomfortable in here. I move extra quick, glad to have agility back in my legs and rush toward the window where the voice yelled my number. Tripping, I land on my laser suit jacket with all these papers that I am carrying flying out from under my flailing arms. The papers cut through the room, landing helter-skelter before me, foreign symbols and shapes cover the sheets and I crumple them all up, throwing them half-hazard into a tan leather bag I seem to have acquired mysteriously, presenting my self to the window with a smile.

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_________________ figure eight staircase, fake lex, frozen hair

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Welcome home __________________________________________________________ “Welcome home!” A voice shouts from a recorded tape behind the cream counter. Other than this, it is bleak; a pink rabbit suit on a long, alloy clothes line rolls into view. I peek around the office, at some printed matter from the nineteen eighties, folded neatly, flying to a stop. I notice that it has been freshly washed, and on the recording, (or in the hidden person of it speaking,) the stale man says to put this pink rabbit suit on. He’s getting impatient, and I reach in a reluctant way, through the waiting room window, clutching the soft pink fur in my laser hands. Peeling the bizarre suit down off of the clothesline, it drops easy and I pull it through a small hole in double thick glass, the edge catches on the clothes hanger as I struggle with it for a moment, my back turned to the steel door. I notice a small, rectangular business card in the left hand pocket. I Pull it out in a flashy blur of bar codes, pull it out to study the emblem inscribed on the top corner. I do this quickly, reading the strange words out loud: “Welcome home 7.1, please put on this suit and wear it at all times when aboard the ship, instructions and your partner are awaiting you in Sector three, office building G.” The letters peel paper, form old English as they are written in ink. The room begins cold, outer-space lows, and turning twice, the room stays alloy. steel walls, encased metallic doors, framed cages. A sign above one of the rusted exits reading the sector number, starting at zero and going to fourteen. I stumble into the legs of the pink bunny suit, tripping as I get all the way into it, and lunging through emptiness of giant rooms, rust stained doors. I stop, sniffing strawberry cake. A list of vermin who knew Lexi have been stapled together, and run auto across my vision. A puzzle of the eaten alloy. I shove my bunny slipper at the

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door, a ricochet through rooms, signing a flight of decayed brass stairs, one after another, reeking of oil. I am passing cases of books that have been stacked in a large, numerical eight on their sides. Stairways crossing infinitely around me leading three stories into the past, away a hundred years.

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⣣ __________________________________________________________ I smell like I'm aboard a submarine. The detergent these things used to clean the suit smells like strawberry cake. Strawberry submarine batter. I pinch my nose closed (what a mix,) and walk passed a hazard sign lining a broken fencing. Not down, not up, but right and left side, along a figure-eight of steps, through sideways smelling candy, pink strawberry lozenges and cream bunny suit. Wandering dozens of stairs, I breach the end of the figure eight, almost sudden as the cream mixes with strawberry. I get to the door, with a number, Sector Three. The place. I open the door and walk in. An empty piece of shit replica of the same office, as before. The sun comes in through one large, double paned, piece -of -shit -glass window and it reeks of stale submarine. Broken pieces of frozen cow laying out in the corner, a diamond necklace skewed on top. “7.1, welcome.” A man with black eyes, behind a black door. He looks like good ‘Ole school boy from the house downtown, slicks his black hair in a comb-over, rubs his pale skin, bags under his black eyes, and enters on electronic arms. A crooked smile, that means mechanical brain, tries to comfort me. He seems like a nice enough machine, but I hide deep in the suit trying not to look at it, him. Pointing over to the pile, frozen, and crumbling scraps of my old partner Lex he says, “She needs repairs,” handing over a slim yellow envelope. His voice is warping and turning back to the black door in an apparition symbol collage. He disappears. “Instructions are inside there,” he words it warped, marbled table around itself, smiling another lost, friendly smile before leaving.

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The waiting room

The black door, The black door slams shut. I walk over Lex, piled in the corner, peering into the solid exposed chunks of melting muscle under the flickering phosphorus. The fog comes out of complexities in the room, either from the vents in the office or itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s coming out of Sarah Lex, weaving above me, this room, patterns, too many rooms. I say aloud that the room is in doubles, wording it to sound like I would shouting through a window. If I was under water warping, I duck my nose beneath the zipper in my pink bunny suit, and take a deep breath, clutching the yellowed instructions close to my chest. Cold air blows through the pink fur. "...The nameless old man is reflecting in the window, past layers of low, cloud coverage. The steel floor is wearing a Fedora hat, tilted to the faceless blur (â&#x20AC;Ś)" "--Sarah Lex is in a pile on the floor, my old pal who took her time through vague smoke, if we were ever trapped, like now..." They must be implementing gas. I must hide deep inside my bunny suit from the smoke.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;

Dense and yellow, the fog casually enters from pores in old Lex, silver gray next to me, I grab its handle, remove eyes from her old skin. The peep hole (I had in my vision but never noticed until now,) shining light through man in fedora hat, peeking from the other side. I push the Silver/gray open, and fall into another room where machines run, pumping into the lingering smell of submarines. The fog wraps around me, and goes straight for my kneecaps. Hovering through my strawberry cake bunny suit, slamming the door, I notice other fingers grasping the jamb. Her body mutates into crawling, and the iron silver gray, a ricochet of metal banging metal in the distance. Then I stop, frozen, still without time, suddenly standing in painted replication on panel, watching as the fog follows a hand, follows a group of fingers. They lift a Fedora from a head that has been superimposed over the ship guts. Flat cables of a motherboard link up with pipes. A central nervous system of ivy, like water mains, meet where the eyes poke through the brain. An electric pulse sends noticeable waves of electric thought to the extensions of wire, plugged through separate entry ways in the face. Setting it in the corner, next to her skin that is fusing to the life source of silver, pulsing to life, he makes a motion toward the enormous pile of molding cattle parts. My pile of molding socks mutates. Pores opening, sock skin releasing a ton of putrid, yellow gas from inside her. I cover my face from it, disgusted by this. His hair comes out of the pile of skin, parted to one side on his head as bones disappear from the socks.

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Sarah’s diamond necklace curls in animation around his neck, from within the rot. Hiding in the pink fuzz, I suck on the black plastic zipper. “Have you been able to read the instructions yet?” black eyes asks, warped plastic vowels, marbled paper consonants. I look at the yellow envelope as he itches his new, completed scalp. “Uh, sure,” I say, marbled paper vowels, and warped plastic consonants. “Okay, good.” He closes the door, making the attack fog die back into the office. Above, a sign for the sector emerges from the death of the killer fog, printed in harsh Russian hybrid. “The thing about the smoke is that it is used for separation of soul and body parts. A re-entry kind of thing, for the dead. Pulled me right out of there!” Black eyes just laughs. He marbles paper and warps plastic bottles with his droning on. His voice is not finished loading properly. Some of the key words such as, “the, and, I, He, who, what, when, where, and why,” those are not on his list yet. The voice is still mechanically run. As we walk into the draining of steps, we are echoing sideways, and long hand. Figure eight stairs are a hard, limb exercise through submarine scraps. Clutching the handrail as we roam down through industrial chrome, we weave along a strange area of laughter. The laughter turns into the sound stepping on steps. Apartments and gravel roads – I look at him, and pull the bunny ears down. Inspecting his dark, black eyes in the dim industrial Light. "No! put that back on!" black eyes shouts. Warped version of vowels and marbled consonants. I do so quickly. He looks down at his tan loafers. He seems to be thinking about crying. “You didn’t read the instructions did you?” He says, his voice slips in and out of sound, his lower lip quivers, slow at first, then quickly. “No.” I marble, crumpling my brow as I put back on the suit hood. He shakes his head, no, sniffles, and then begins to break into tears before me. Lips quivering, sobbing. Lexi's diamonds shake around his neck. I want to tear them off. This is not Lex, she would never act this way. So I start advancing on the old mutation of her. I move forward slowly and taste strawberry.

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________________________ Death on Mandelbrot corner, clown teeth apartments, The teacup infinity

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Mail box face] __________________________________________________ “Bunny suit! Where are you going? Damn it!” I turn. I turn into grass. I turn. I look from inside, I turn. I turn into mail. I am shouting at my pink, shortcake suit running into eatable fog. Behind the now, sitting down to set his hat where I was standing are giant armfuls of eatable fog between the universe underneath. Time/laugh If only it could move/face. I watch him as he pulls wax hair out of his hair and then yellow streaks pass my eyes, running, runners, figure eights on a run through the yellow woods. I am mail. “Mom!" On his toes, a dream of a VHS boy, a video tape yelling. (Subtitles read he is going in the old barn. He’ll be back in an hour for dinner and Mom reads okay.)The young VHS tape plays the boy running past me, stitching up the dirt road to the wood shed with warps. (I feel it as he lifts my face open; the rusted hinge slamming closed and through my eyes reading Wilow st. on the front of the box) I see a stack of letters in his hand. My pink bunny shortcake pouring around the corner where I see him from inside of his hands. I am thin and brambled in mail. To lift me and crawl through me - catching pink fuzz on my barbed elbow, dripping frosting from the suit to my barbed wire tongue, I taste a little piece of it.

Hay fields stretch in years, in Cedar, Aspen, fern and foliage. There, he crosses the giant bleached Sun, a pink blur jumping through forget-me-knot's.

The suit is becoming on him as a Mandelbrot, quick

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right and viewed from the branches connected to me, singing, walking, deep pink, Mandelbrot black. The farm edge property fangs sit moist on his mothers house, in my bunny suit.

Remote, I am waiting at the stage of a fractal configuration built on equations. Hidden in broken fiber through the thin, hanging notches of the ladder, submerged in hay, a rusted edge of barbed wire poking through wood. As he presses up the ladder, letters fall through the rungs. His hiding spot, his play house, and long shadows of trailing, tracking, seeking, hunting, pursuing, reaching for his neck, a far wall.

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Kid finds Mandelbrot code] __________________________________________________ The whisper is made out of a distinct grim I had planned for, shaking hay from the rungs while he ascends. I see his forehead integrated with the Mandelbrot corner, as indentations stage the gruesome inevitability. I see him lying on the floor next to me. There, I, (the real me) sits in the corner: Mandelbrot, a pile of scythes, codes, a wood saw, blood, a set of steak knives, eyes peak my hidden place, watching through the pile of Scythes and blood and hay. Knives lurch, vault, lunge from the corner of the equation, into his fake face. Mirror shatters, smelling him as they follow through to the dust floor of the barn. For a moment there is a coat of white, and red paint crossing through us. Below, white through red, barn fades, yellow blankets. The pink suit and I start wrestling young boy from nowhere in dark black fingers crossing the background. White and red, white and red, white and red (â&#x20AC;Ś) I walk through him. The wax from his hair, (in his scalp) I put his fedora hat back on his head, absorbing the memory into its balloon. Paint closes in around us, armfuls of it (like blankets,) moving the cold air back. Fast computer, he stands behind me Again. The suit: switching, white and red, switching, white and red, white and red, switching, switching, white and red! WHITE AND RED. SWITCHING. WHITE AND RED. SWITCHING. WHITE AND RED. WHITE AND RED.

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teeth] __________________________________________________ I put the suit back on. “What are you?" I cry miniature fog, not one drop a reasonable one,not one moment a natural one. “What is this place?"I choke. Lifted by screaming to the wall,lifted by hands pulling pieces of the examining room closer. The palm of a hand gently pulls the fog across the wallpaper and down, through us. My hand against a closure of corners, staggering through a suddenly thick room, sifting the air out of a scuba mask as it dawns on me;this is Lexington, written into felt when she cried snow and died. White light in my heart courses a three course meal to my lungs where I am full of cotton. Cold, white stains apply to my legs, cotton exposure. An apartment complex of teeth. Cotton office building ship. The wind is a smile on me, walking through its job. Before me, Olympia watches me eat. I gobble down a handful of French fries dipped in coffee. I am careful and swift. Still, sitting real still. Diner across from a bookstore wiggles. Hen dances around and lives through this – The lights dim. At least I’m here, inside, sitting in my apartment complex. Sitting in a row of god forsaken clown teeth. The lunatic before a water canteen and the robot circuit board, falling in rows laid out In complex clown teeth apartments - At least there's that. And she’s watching me hand a full pound of empty calories into My shovel; into my mouth, into my stomach. Her eyes watch my stomach twitch as I ingest the “food.” The wax hair of the man screaming at the walls ruining the wallpaper swollen in his wax hair

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frozen to the back of my mind. The teacup of infinity

A generation crosses my frame and frozen in a line of glass for a moment, Final clarity emerges. “Complex:Clown Cavity Apartments.”half filtered generation –One

reference: Crystal cube rotation device stirring the cream teacup in eatable lavender. Crystal cube rotation device stirring the Cream teacup in eatable tea. tea. This clear glass box, all the cups, row after row And then me on the corner Perched in a Mandelbrot a fractal murder, surrounded by them, lavender Submerged, horizon lines of an eight sided scope drifting over, left, right, slow,Teacup tipped onto one-dollar idea within ambiguous absorption. Visual lavender pours over my face, soaks into the cloth of the pink suit turning it and my skin to rice paper and melting us both away into one of the cups. Calling to my vision in the liquid scope of sun every kaleidoscopic angle registers a pure joy, like lights entering the darkest room. adjusting my nodules, Eye notice of a forest in the distance, Tree lines swishing In a series of movements over Upside down , wet tea machine. Liquid warms body parts; Generated out of refurbished arms and legs with a human heart Pumping thin blood through perfected glass valves. Eye worry that Eyes are floating in glass via blood. So sick and cold, and recovered in tea, and tired. Sleep comes rinsing over the machine in a bath where The walls melt into a China. Eye rolling through pieces of sliced green onion, then eye spilled Into the gracious notch of a concrete hole next to stone feet where eyes rest

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tilt]

The liquid, this water that makes up the bulk of a soup. Eyes float into the groove beneath toes; The warm broth ice covered feet into thawing, sliced veal. (-------This icon, the rusty dog tied to a bicycle pole-------) The eyes inside head come closer, And the forest appears before a visual Map. Before the glass cell, before the mint teacup resting in the foreground. The forest comes through diamond filters and \tiltsâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the glass tilted, this awful glass cell of drowningâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;

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Locations] __________________________________________________ In the cracked pavement focusing, your eyes,my eyes, your eyes, my eyes, your eyes, my eyes, your eyes, my eyes (â&#x20AC;Ś) I am poured like pavement into one whole row of teacups, Over-flowing, visually broken, the left hand grabs from somewhere in your body. Eyes - from a whole row of locations, peer at a cellular ceiling.

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ii.|

Left mind departure

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_______________________ Paper dream hole puncher seeds in a basket

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Clouds __________________________________________________ The little rabbit-shaped collapsible is passing over pink toy hammers, pounding kid stars out of a rabbit suit, collapsing into a gust of wind, All worry leaving from inside of me, My organs are now relaxed into the cell of these cups. Sun peels out from behind a shattered Pile of optical illusions - diagonal Lines feeds horizontal shadows created glass. A floating symbol in the lavender, a leaf heating my pupil warm, as the light passes through the teacups, I see leaf. pathways in the leaf. Wondering if the complex of teeth Became a row of infinite cellular teacups (They will never know They will never know Heâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll learn, and so will he, theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll teach each other.) loops elsewhere in the landscape, and it Feels infinite, vast, ghastly dessert the middle of it ingesting me, an old electronics warehouse Turning me installation art tea cups and doily's, where lavender lines the surface of the dense orange earth, where I become Infinite,in vast love. The most pure installation of infinite love.

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::TIME LAPSE VIDEO WOVEN BASKET:: __________________________________________________ The text of the sun sounding out the visual sensation of warmth, molecules of the dry earth, watered at each Tilt in my mystery mouth in my glass box; The teacups drip into the basin of The dessert floor, quick, Time lapse video begins, showing a progression Where from seven cups I am being dropped into the Blades of cacti, stone, wire lichen, submerged in seeds from lavender, blending My eyes into new eyes, where rooted beneath the San Pedro, are stayed, woven through wire lichen, into a plant body, Roots, Sun down, sun up, drifting lavender passing in A soft breeze, one year, wilting, dying man plant body, old now, Ten years, Torn from the soil by old hands and carried away within The tribal basket, only visually aware of the symmetry in the weave, letting in afternoon light. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m piled in seven stacks, probably I am dying. My only reference being the sun light through intricate Diamond shape weaving and the tan movement of dawn, as we wander the dessert on her feet. I lay under hooks on the landing in the barn. This is what I get for killing an innocent bunny rabbit suit, I suppose.

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Barn [Trail of stench for the meadows of the blindâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;] Walking for days and days and still haven't found me. The last blister of thought calls home via cellular Socks and shoes. I sit in a cell of lab equipment On chains, hanging by my broken roots, drying out . A peaceful smile as a large top hat in size. The sun Passing over the dessert. A smile lingers, becoming fusion to me, by some kind of strong Grasp, and a part of me falling, drift in the fashion Of a feather to the floor of the barn, into the hay; It begins quickly in time lapse video, a lavender seed grows in the shade of an old sun. A few months later I am half alive again, waiting for Lex, in my clean lavender skin. The sun turns around a line Of trees, reaching out a silk vine to the wooden doors, I unfold my lavender wings, absorbing her, at least a Distant memory of her, a kind which almost has No meaning. Yet the scent of fresh air always reminds me. She comes out and finds a rooted lavender within hay, Poking through a rigid lock and smiles at it, bending down, and calmly unfolding its arms from the latch,

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careful to not break it In half. And then the memory is gone. Lex is in a frozen pile of socks. Lavender seed from a tiny Purple teacup, in the woods of the old Gothic town dollars Drift by outside a window, covering the forest floor.

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Step into chords __________________________________________________ I see my Laser hands in front of what used to be me, They are sifting through dollar bills And the weight of someone on my middle Back. Suddenly the sound of shouting voices comes into my ears, like a cattle stampede behind me, Screeching draws my glance directionally to a furry pink bear legging in silver chaps bent around my side, sharp pain climbing my neck , my fingers are clutching big wads of Dollar bills as I am flung backwards And pulled into an upright begging position while shown a rope, long and knotted Twice, once with silver and once with black thread. I try to stand, followed by a cackling near by in the woods. A sticker bush pricks one of my hands, And she turns me around to face her, hidden Deep beneath the fur of this bright pink bear suit she's got on, nothing moves but a flicker of silver gloss lipstick that she wears over imperfect white teeth a cleft of seducing silver lips. A black and silver rope tied around some part of her inside the pink bear suit. Inspected with microscopic tools, I might see a pack of circuitry a ceiling of wires And a floor of confusing visions, Sprayed through table cloth, doily. I might see Red glass, once within her, a sticker to the inside of her walls, I would see red stained glass and flight plans.

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___________________________ Coming back to linear patterns//

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Hole punch:: __________________________________________________ Her make up is done nice tonight, A mere red line over two white doll eyes. Blankets and paint (â&#x20AC;Ś) She's got me by the flesh just found in a poked up fixture from my skin - while she jumps back onto my waist and kicks my ribs A Rope is attached to my cock, and the little one in the bear costume kicks the chaps over my shoulders, since I can't move and wraps her thighs around the back of my head until it shatters. Red paper dots are cut from the fifth dimension and landing on a postcard photo of mountains until it is completely covered with them, \\\ [The winter eats red dots. cut into mountains.] [The sky is cut out until they take over.] circles. They cut away the rocks.] hole punched paper dots cut and cut and cut and cut. "Smack!" I hit my chin across the dream of a monkey bar, my neck pushes my eyes into the sky. Its all just a green light of fuzzy edges.

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Simple geometry. blinds . Felt box It is mundane that I am staring up at old venetian blinds in a Victorian pattern ornately woven across the ceiling in the middle of the day. A slight breeze coming in through a window, a subtle fuzz of sunlight stitching spots on my arm, or that I'm alone or maybe the house is full of us. Generic people in rabbit costume lay across the green dust mites of the carpet, mixed into the pink batter.

All of us line outer-space in a simple geometry,woven far enough away to see a line of gold blinds and a photograph of a kitten standing poised with messy hair, and stairs to the second floor. The carpet smells but I am comfortable enough. Even a millimeter left and feel I will taste death white. Even a millisecond to the right and I just slip into a film of a dream i once had, before living in this house, before this town and its money trees, its abandoned restaurants its condemned school, the remains of a housing development. School boy. The handful of worms in his hat, lurking vile, spinning wheels The mountains and thinning dollar bill trees, blooming in midst of an April shower north of town. It all comes up in the wallpaper as ridges of gold, reflecting from the sun as it pours into this house. Warmth stretches around my lying here, watching it bloom. I hope i never have to go outside again, I hope that I never have to see the thin black hair he combs to one side, his little school boy outfit he's in; and those red paper dots cutting through the darkness that follow him, those things that kill. The disappearing voice that his eyes haunt with, that shellac snail, poured into his pocket, the rag he uses to cover his eyes with. I hope

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that I never have to be in another one of those overlapping films ever again, I hope I spill the last drop of sweet lavender tea over the edge of a mountain far, far away from here, leave a flattened smile at the opening of a cave and burst red, at the opening of another image, no regrets, just hillside and landscape through landscape, feet wrapped, mouth wide in awe. The escape of this disastrous other body.

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The cats __________________________________________________ In this carpet I feel my skin as a felt room, one in which safety is in walls, lasers my paws, just laying there watching the ceiling curl together a house for kittens, weaving felt stairs, felt ceilings, mint green, blue green luscious red felt walls going all around. The Selkirk Rex at the entry, tattering edges with quick jilting little paws digs deep into woven felt floor. One, two, three tiny tigers in white stripes, with long eyebrows curl up with the ceiling, playful, wild fearsome eyes sticking out every which way with each hair. The little Selkirk Rex rummages through layers of gray and orange felt as I lay in simple geometry bathing in sun and dollars, as I pass through the air in the window. Overlapped dollars fall over dollars - top over bottom through four panes of glass, in a green latex blur near the foreground.

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Before grade school __________________________________________________ Wrapped in monkey bars, I find my discomfort very quickly, surrounded from my neck downstairs, again saturated with pipes little legs of aluminum surround a beige flower backdrop. My neck is bent out of proportion where I reach like a tree – where the weeks fuse with the weeks via data joiners, concept mapping, grid coding sources? God knows who has been hacking town. (My Eyes reach the tree behind the huge wooden jungle gym. This thing sounds funny in our sprained collection of heads And discomfort land is a turtle on its back, from legs that wrap and fuse to hair land to the monkey bars, snapping my jaw closed, to the ground— between green and stuck up blue light, from the bottle, painted opaque, flat and pouring out the substance, to the frozen glass of memory and layer upon layer of sawdust, the milk substance screams through someone else's name. “Isaac, Issac?” “Are you okay?”I am surrounded in monkey bars and taste only metallic rot holding the green and blue Substance inside a crispy white system. Gold leaf through moss filtered – Phalanges to my tongue – growth enters teeth, fabric fingers searching out evil. Fingers and elbows searching. The sawdust sketches. Pictures of a young boy, climbing from a fall that seems to have broken some piece of him -) lying here, tranquilized and damaged, I can make out, through puzzle pieces off the water stained roof, first a stencil, of the name Isaac and now the name itself, the word forming into the milk chocolate letters: "Are you okay?"

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::She monster Maine Coon:: __________________________________________________ Isaac, get up, are you okay? These are the words a cattle brand has dug into the gold foil and the milk chocolate wallpaper confusing my face. I grab the teal shag carpet, pulling myself up. Pieces of the carpet are torn out in my fingers, The stairs, a vile creature standing before meâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; Isaac! This milky white substance screams through liquid, its face is of Maine Coons and its eyes flicker through me, looking through me, followed by a ripping sound from its mouth used to make a flat print on newspapers, the sacred disappearing and the huge thing has me in the odd shapes of an upper-case sentence that is cut in half all smiling and carved and broken boards of the carpeted stairs in the mansion, carving through it, through the house peeling back the steps in a broken blur. And the Maine Coon mask falls to expose a traditional head dress. A native raven. Trying to force my way out of this monster's hold, I try throwing myself over its giant shoulder, over its furled hairy arm. It's feet tear up the steps like butter exposing tongues and guts and muscle beneath the stairs. Beneath the ripped carpet, a spewing of body parts and splintered wood - An infinite laughter melts chocolate through gold foil (wallpaper.) Laughter, as another language Victorian pattern closed over all walls in the house made literally from chocolate that is now being branded cattle prods in an old English texture, the walls melt from their rhythm and now we are in the attic and Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m carefully set in a school desk. The creature hunches over the attic door holding it in her huge hand as a dolls house door, soft with its huge grip. The mask

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of Elvis Presley pokes beneath the traditional native head dress. She is brief with the lock and frozen , pressing the ear, the layer of masks to the crumbling attic door, one of the eyes squirms inside. suspected movement on the ground floor. The monster pulls it open suddenly again, while half morphed through creatures, reaching the aspects Of a fiber optic bat, a small la-perm, Maine coon, Selkirk Rex, Savannah, Ragamuffin, and then carefully to the broke steps an oriental cross Bread house cat, peter-bald turns in its tracks and peers at me before stepping to the downstairs. I can smell the cats congregated inside the house. The familiar meow of the Maine coon followed by a record spinning old time music. The attic door slams closed and I fall from the school house Chair, into a vortex, a cataract, a cortex, no No, Just a puddle on the floor, of water, of blood. I rest my hand in it and accidentally rub some on my face, as it drips over my mouth and into the cotton of my t-shirt. The door opens again; a kitten the size of my fist wanders up to me sitting in the blood, through tears I bend down and pet her soft, white fur, spilling some through my fingers, a liquid. Her blue crystal eyes flicker up at me. "Your pretty." I say. Scowling the little Rex jumps away, running to the mutilated steps, back into the downstairs. I get up, walk out to the landing and peer down over the railing at the kittens gathered near the fireplace. Dancing at a party with the record player, they listen to old time music, a trumpet and washboard, a washtub bass and orangutan piano. Chuckling I reach the steps where arms and legs and

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tongues have been beneath, to see that the carpet creates that illusion of stains, of water damage, of thin spots. A kitten York chocolate circles around the pack, meowing as it knocks over lanterns, looks up on noticeable me at the landing and then charges up the stairs, knocking into the railing as it reaches me at the same time morphing, through bird species and then landing on my right shoulder as a Raven Squawking a big welcome home as I walk slowly down the Steps. A bit of his language branded in the chocolate foil of the walls.

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________________ schoolboy’s house, Toe tag message,

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:::Walking Outside __________________________________________________ Later, the sun blends down into the woods following the crooked gutter of the Gothic houses, I wander through thin, dying forest, watching oranges in the sky rot away and turn black. With Tooty, a chocolate York/ raven perching upon my shoulder, I am clothed in raccoon skins for warmth looking back to the front door of the house where kittens poke their frail heads from a kitchenette, they are looking long through dirty pane glass windows from The breakfast nook. I notice them meowing in a worried

manner. a tempest is coming into town from the worlds away, taking their friend and brother Tooty Mew.p away from them. The dollar bill trees are menacing funny faces the two raccoon and Morpheus cat cannot bear to look the faces are so funny. Everything in the forest remains quiet. A glitch crosses chest level, sections of the trunks disjoin down and then back into place. Walking near a line of condemned houses descending into an old creek, I catch the scream from within one house near the end of the line, followed closely by the sound of a whistling approach and then stillness. Dollars rustle in the fauna A tweaked hearing-aid at highest volume is plugged into

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my ears. The silence is growing loud in my ears. I cannot bear it, I cover my ears holding the rabbit gloved laser hands hard over my ears, squinting my eyes staring down at the ground as the glitch cuts. Toes, recently severed In the moss The edge of the creek. Quickly, to the other side of the bank (through simulations) I am careful not to look back through the corrosive glitch intoxicating the toes. I am flying and notice a hunched over man – double exposure silhouette of branches then arms, then heads, then branches, then smiles, then teeth, then trees. He is miles and miles away then he is closer, and closer then he is lit behind the dollar bills in the moon. A sudden gust of wind crosses and the silhouette is no man, but trees, tricky trees. “Manifolds wield the UN-known grasp behind you in this deserted mansion.” Tooty squawks the language of melted chocolate Drooling tarnish on my shoulder as he whispers this severe tongue. When I turn - an old house (where there was none) you assemble it. (The asylum appears, built hundreds of years ago. The roof is badly damaged the shingles have been replaced with gold the Apparition of UN-winding snakes Trapped inside the wood. Vines of a strange tree grow inward beneath the pours.

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NEST __________________________________________________ I get inside. the divided body parts Of the school boy are flayed in different rooms of the house. Toe tags sewn in to the spasm of arms muttering soft throughout the house. Rare dust coated realms, Notes, Sewn into a pair of hands in the living room. I'm the one who killed her. One note reads. (The empire of the front room) Pictures of old military captains, lace curtains coated in dust, a coffee table next to green velvet couches that take the whole room. Tooty pinches my ear with his beak and drops from my shoulder onto the end table by the sewn and severed hands. Flipping the toe tag over with one wing, it is revealed that another side of menacing dust covered mutterings has been inscribed on the tag. "Of a dessert sky, I watched her die and enjoyed myself some tea."

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Tooty prances about the hands and pecks them once, each. He looks up after awhile, cranking his neck and squawks. The dust from the tag flies as he shakes his wings and lifts off the table a folding of black paper being pulled through space on string. Setting on railing of the upstairs landing, and squawking loud, three times in a row, somewhere inside of a glowing box is heard three times as Tooty disappears into one of the rooms. I am starting to feel like we need to get out of here when the door shuts hard after Tooty enters. A sudden fear of losing him into the hair, absorbing into my forearm where a missing memory might have once been superimposed, my laser suit. The only friend I ever had is dead, before I even knew it she was gone integrated with the School boys story meshing and this is happening again. I picture Tooty being ripped to shreds by ice, snow, burning from within like Lex and I had. Tears and snow and blood. Snot and tears and ruin across his tiny wounded face.

Running at the stairs, a wild beast in burdened cloths three steps at a time; I catch my foot on a row near the middle, falling to the red carpet down with a heavy, loud bang. The whole house feels the fall and rumbles as I try to slowly get up, quickly getting to my feet to run, and jumping the last ten steps, where the door my raven got sucked into seems far away, pulled back. The door is completely wide open and my legs are rock formations slowly lifting from within inches of moss, where I begin tearing. I shout at the top of my falling empirical lungs, my lungs of sand and the door swings back in a slight wind, open and closed as I get up to the room, open and closed and then finally after what felt like years going by in sand, I get up to the handle heavy in gold leaf, and turning in my hands, I attempt the door as cream

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falls from the wood, it doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t open all of the way. I hear the familiar squawk of Tooty and shove the crumbling door open. _________________________________ â&#x20AC;˘ CORVUS CORAX (noun)(K OR-vuhs K OR-aks) The noun CORVUS CORAX has 1 sense: 1. large black bird with a straight bill and long wedge-shaped tail Hyde:: __________________________________________________ Blood stained into carpet, blood stained into bed sheets. Tooty is perched on the torso, head, the little boys bedroom, pecking at a note sewn into the eaten flesh of the school boys face. The door slams shut, followed by a gust of wind Cutting through an open window near the old portrait of school boy on the wall. These are the limbs of your killer. I read on one side Of the toe tag. Tooty jumps out of the blood pile and onto my shoulder, clutching the toe tag in his beak and I flip it, reading the opposite side. Code broken into four small parts of the toe tag displays The language reminiscent to that of glitch-ed Computer c++ format blended to Aztec Sediment. It is some kind of space code made up of what looks to me to be human blood a print from his A positive. The strangest sound comes from the down stairs area something I haven't heard in ages ricochets through the living room and into this little boys room. A ring-in' at the doorbell. Tooty squawks loudly, shattering the silence and dropping the toe tag in doing so. I bend and lift it from within the carpet wandering behind him to the landing. To the main room of the house, I Pull back the large green lace curtain and

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peek out to the porch. A dark figure behind dollar bills has arrived at the door. It lurks on the porch hidden by a mask of black sheep skin.

\\\:B Terminal:: (( BEGIN SEQUENCE)) __________________________________________________ I wipe my eyes of silver tears and look through the window at the rotting front porch steps. Glitter drifts out of my persona into the carpet and stays there for some time before it disappears. Searching out for the maniac at the door invest the trees, for the oasis wearing a mask over a mask over a mask. There are dollars drifting where a moment passes into the red door. One dollar bills flutter into the living room, Through a crack. In the casement a frame of the old porch strings together webs where ivy kills. The old porch is strung together solely out of spider webs, hanging broken gutter from a never ending roof. Apparition sheep suit in mask is made out of vines and trees and spider webs across the entrance to the steps. I stand in my underwear with little baseball players running across my jock and butt, in the sunken green shag carpet in my baseball socks with pinstriped red lines, two in a row stitched high on my shins. Spider webs dangle across the entrance something gruesome living in the steps. I stand in my underwear baseball players running across the straps, my feet are bunched up paper bags. My neck cranes to distinguish the sheep suit from

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the willow. Five dollar bills flutter passed in the window. I finger the drapes, and lift one corner of peach velvet as slowly as I can, at the same time trying desperately not to be noticed. In doing so, in the thought of that thing noticing me, i am frozen and stuck on a layer of dust that has settled over the peach curtain in my hand. A memory intervenes where a smell intoxicates my area. It's grandmothers house. They allowed smoking inside. The mask peels out of the tree bark and looks over me, in a way that seems it could be blind and doesn't even see, until the eyes underneath it meet mine. The feeling comes over my entire body as it peers right at me, I have been located, spotted, doom has come. The wolf beneath sees me standing in the window. My blood lined socks, I'll bet this thing is licking its lips right now just waiting to get its claws in my little boy baseball body. This is it, the terror that is my second death. I can feel it. To and fro, acting as the spiders, black fur mimics the trees before me, it decides in stages how to morph the vines. A snow of static beneath the mask shakes out an apparatus, which pours a mixture of computer codes into a basket. Bars from a pepper shaker, then pink juice. Portable valves shake off and lock back up to pull inside. A glitch from within the snowing code slashes a thin hole across town. The glitch comes over my entire body and the mask peers at me, I have been located, spotted, doom has come. It becomes morning glory through roots, until outside the window it is black sheep suit and mask again, only closer. A long bone emerges from within the skin suit, reaching to the casement as I drop the curtain and settle back into the room. My body is completely shocked by the first blast of glitch and

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I am suffering a kind of living rigors. The tapping is bone shattering on the silence in the house, and one end of the curtain rod suddenly falls from inside the wall, smashing the carpet, puncturing a hole in the floor. A chaotic dust storm settles into the room making-way for his figure eight to tap along the window frame in greater detail. His fur is clumped together in spots, not a suit in the morning light, it is a nothings' hair. I can tell by the way it is furling over the shoulder. It's eyes twitch beneath an extra pair of eyelids following my movements in a way that seems the thing must feed soon, it is angry. Me, twitching out of socket like a broken light bulb. Tap, tap goes the long ebony edge of the sheep suit, I begin to notice the black hollow where eyes had been hidden under that mask twitching in a nervous way. Tooty swoops down from the chandelier he's been perching on and starts pecking at the old glass light and the the mask suit morphs into the trees camouflaged in repeating shapes of dollar bills. It fuses itself only enough that the fuzzy edge of the dark fur is still noticeable in spots. Tooty does the same formula shifting into Maine Coon body - into the pattern of the wallpaper and through the molding of the casement, where he then leaks outside.

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Skin of the house Panicking that the thing in the suit is going to follow Tooty back in here, i hide behind a couch, nervous it is coming through the wall to feed on me. A whiff of an old cow being cooked fills the room - I notice curly hair reflecting in the window. This must be it. I fragment, looking down at the orange T-shirt I wear at the pulsing of my heart beats. The two town figurines mesh together in a violent folding curtain underneath the skin of the house.

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___________________ Sim memory: airport \

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The rafters __________________________________________________________

A ring of hair coils from within the peach curtains and folds over my shoulder. Where the curls of hair are, folding from within the clutches of my shoulder A sharp bone fragment shows on an x-ray. A talon, puncturing seven eights of an inch into the Stratum Corneum, Lucidum, Granulosum, Spinosum where it stops then the dermal layer where it scraps a nerve, gelled with plastic. Tooty's familiar squawk in my left ear shakes me from the rigor Mortise and I run. I quickly lose my balance and find myself near the stove someone left wide open in the kitchen. But dodging it by the hair of my right leg, I am sent stumbling with Tooty, digging his claws deep in my shoulder-blades. Entirely too far over by a nail poking out of the wall I almost land with it in me. Tooty launches across the room, ending up tangled with the light fixtures in the ceiling. I end up in fear, over myself near the edge of the basement. Nearly falling to death on a blade hanging over a light switch. I land in a pile of books, and read foreign languages from the trash, everywhere. It is confusing me as I try getting to my feet and continue scampering. The tapping at the window continues, and I wait for the thing to be at the landing on the stairs. No

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one is there. Nothing is as startling as a sheep suit, mask wearing psycho maniac, sighted in the darkness. A picture of an old man hangs crooked on the wall. Holes in the wood steps lead into the basement. I think there will be eyes coming to those holes and look away quickly, still trying to clamor to my feet, but I cannot. Sticking to the floor, invisible janitor suit and nails puncture not a soul, but no matter, I've landed, frozen with fear, seized or punctured on the landing of the stairs to the basement. I am able to wrap four fingers over a book of matches in my pocket. Maybe the railing is what i am grasping. For a moment before doing so, I realize I will have to check on my hand to know for-sure, but I only have enough courage to protect my body from the sight of darkness beneath the house. Into the fifth floor of terminal B, past the dead escalators, all of the way around the silent parking lot, and to the sand; I begin to believe that this is where my house use to be. I crawl into an open closet that seems to have shown evidence of paying customers or am I inspecting the bones in my own hand as they sweep up through me, the chiseled hand of fear.

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In thought __________________________________________________________

Or in other words, it suddenly dawns on me that I might have gotten lost in thought, that I am someone's dream, termites eat my legs tearing holes through. Their nightmare transport. Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the hammer and there's the boy, standing near green tools glowing, then blue under a jungle where they build televisions and computers. There on a table are glowing beakers where they are probably experimenting with hallucinogenic drugs. His stitches glow, and his eyes glow. He arises, stitched together into the background. {Until the softly absent time of oblivion became broken open, the steel of the night became straight lines, the dessert, broken into a gray and ominous fortress. The windows of blurring into the wind because of sand throws its particles of beating in a rage of nails into the tool bench -} Boy was he there (â&#x20AC;Ś) A basement has a lot of funny things that appear to be boys. That's not him, he's chopped into a thousand different pieces and spread over the entire house like cow manure, It was only- me, I

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thought the coat rack was him. Just the play of light in a far window, limping through an ivy patch out there. The wind has been chiseled past with a knife, the animal. As the dog was taken up, into the wind, sand perforates something else behind for rent signs. A cabin I cannot recognize has been recently whitewashed a dog, a sheep suit standing in the corner being shaved with trimming sheers. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Tooty!" I shout, waking a cat on my shoulder to jump. The sound of fur, in shape of an absent moan razzes my ears, fuzz leads us running up to the kitchen landing and Tooty clutches on, holding his wings down. I peek over at him on my shoulder, half cat in one eye, half bird in the other fifteen eyes jumping down his shoulders to the small of his back. Puzzle pieces fly off his shoulder, (pictures of blue eyes) the cat dissolving the raven pupil into a puddle of pieces on the concrete, and leaving Toot the York cat blue bottles in his eyes hanging on for dear life, as we race through the kitchen. I see the little school boy outfit melting in the oven a naked little boy with black hair bent over it cooking. The smothering tries to stop me cold, but for fear of the little knives, I laugh hysterically in haste, run as fast as I can to the living room and fall over a pile of books on the floor. Out of the corner and over Toots's perforated hair eyes, the black mask lingers under the mantle of the fire place, bending out of sight in slow motion. Black sheep skin disguised as books, morphing through them toward us. Back into the kitchen, I see the little boy running with a steak knife he already cut himself with and then, suddenly before death smears over blades my way, Toot lifts up off of the ground and crashes us into the attic landing safely in the rafters.

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((B TERMINAL:: SEQUENCE COMPLETE)) __________________________________________________ The rafters switch to arrows, pointing out the simulation to a set of stairs at the end of a gray corridor. Sim has just been born today. He was raised underneath this room. A room, a mixture of blue focus and green fuzz surfaces along the edge of a rectangular grid and then poured into concrete. Focused systematically sim grows near them. A small code in the corner of my vision (<790.02_...) becomes a mouse. Lights above twitch a string of number (//32.51.//34) (8.7.51//2.14) and then flicker out to nothing, a darkness of loading. Green, blue, neon allow arrows to take shape, fuzz out to their completed edge in time to then die back into thin digits of a numerical sequence again (888///111). At a start up screen in any game this can occur, the simulation settles into itself dissolves numerically and then appears seamless before it starts. A sign flashes GO. Another mouse crosses and then dissipates behind a counter placed inside the door way of a destroyed room. The sound of clanking around from the

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mouse and then silence, like the stopping short, the mouse heard my simulation coming toward the room and paused. Silence so deep it echoes silence and there is no way around it. Lights strung together in code (A_90) start a settled version of mice ears and then more mice ears.

(Code set) * __________________________________________________ Flickering inside of the storage room now, beyond the entrance to A_ terminal, my simulation fingers hunt through signature napkins with airline logos printed on the outer edge of them, packets of soap and dishtowels. (632) (5) &((9.1)) It fingers through complimentary boxes of signature toothpicks, (871.321) mint candy, (523//0.00) towelette boxes (77987.77987) the mind is blank canvas. Dust (0.1) fluorescent light and stains and shadows. (//32.51.//34) (8.7.51//2.14) (3.3) & (777.1) Jutting organizer shelves ^(625) shadow and paint, (777.1) (1.0) shadows of memory. (777.1) (.0011=) It doesn't remember everything. The storage closet, this is all it can see therefore, this is its only memory where it begins fumbling. The sim fingers pick through cases of abandoned junk, becoming aggressive and the shelves fall off of the shadows landing down beside them, a nest of code where rats see the sim and scuttle back into a hole. It stumbles

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in codes (//32.51.//34) (777) & (777(8)) (5) ((9)) (<790.02_...) (523//0.00)(<790.02_...) (0.1)(<790.02_...)(A_90)(777) & (777(8)) (<790.02_...)(2213.2) (2213.1)(<790.02_...) ((871.321)<790.02_...) . (56321) (<790.02_...) (<790.02_...)(<790.02_...) (77987.77987) Sim hands in sim air a balancing tool, the last paper towel flutters to the carpet blends the others familiar with it. From the complimentary packs of sugar and cream (2213.2) (2213.1) to the thank you cards (56321) of the unknown airlines. The wall is coated in brown shadows (777) & (777(8)) which may be the printed matter of my sim mind shelved, installed into sim memory built to shelve centuries of whatever I want. The body steps from within the closet and it recognizes something now the birch wood and termites in its legs. A bashed counter, my sim rests for a moment, still thinking of its entrance to the terminal, above the stairs, the sim takes a look through the hole in the counter and sees a mouse looking back at it. It seems to make sense, but the sim remembers something else, something deeper in its old memory that the mind has refused to look at. Its shoulders wander deep through the hallways, scattered bags of trash and wire lay in snags around a hole finding the airports abandoned guts. My sim descends a giant broken escalator, (De javu (1_.7_7_51321_._0001010_11100_) my sim termite eaten feet clap the echoes in the holes of the terminal walls. (..)and It descends slowly(...) Taking caution in the space surrounding it. Downstairs is great darkness and wire. The sim has to adjust

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its eyes to see the long case of metal sticking out of the ceiling leading to the floor. Has the body been here before in this airport a long time? When exactly did it get here and from where did It come. Lost in a dream my sim turns into a dark room, wires hang from electric boxes smashed open; ripped open by tweaker thieves. Huge chunks of carpet torn back to reveal the floor beneath, where layers of wood, bundles of cable wander shredded to one central hole drilled into the floor boards. The ceiling sags, yellow water damaging a thin half inch hole in a part of it. The luggage drop just rots near a doorway; frozen deformed ice grows in a line at the bottom. Bits of it casually blend over, leaving a thin line of glowing mold on the base of a fern that make a home in the mechanisms of the belt. Broken windows tailor the sim through mud, the luggage conveyor is a face my body steps onto, where mold has formed the illusion of eyes, a mouth from rotten rubber. Jumping under The strips, through mechanics and black mold another storage room, an exact replica of the first comes to light.

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iii.|

Cerebral departure

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__________________ GRID, Leaving town Haunted suit

(SIXTY ARMS) __________________________________________________

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Through tags for bagging claim, lost through the dry erase markers. Through boxes of letterhead, boxes of pens with the airline insignia marked on the side, I throw everything off of the shelves in a frustrated rage and witness the collapse of the luggage conveyor as it shakes off of its track and onto the green tile. Fern tears. Kicking trash from my termite holes I walk to the exit, follow the bend , to a closed up door, I check, then shout at the door. After a moment or two it opens and I exit the cream door into a hallway, same as the entrance on the far opposite side of the building. I lunge out to my right hard, following the wall and almost screwing up my neck accidentally shoving my arm into a sharp piece of shit poking from the wall. The pain, I notice the rusted handle jutting out of the wall. Orange light pulls at me a white streak passes my eyes as I lift the heavy door open and pull myself inside, turning to close the wall behind me and wiggle inside the pitch black night.

FIRE::: __________________________________________________

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On my hands and knees, through a chocolate maze, wood and termites holding on tight with their dark candy coated antennae as I crawl through the orange cream sickle streaks in chocolate clouds being licked away. We are a giant tongue falling from the skin of the heavens and suddenly all thoughts â&#x20AC;&#x201C; all memories seem to have disappeared, no idea what I am doing or what has been done to me, the maze turns us around, right, left right, a memory from some other world peaks into my attention. A chocolate York kitten named Tooty in a room that I figure out is an attic, crosses over me in a Burmese cat body. The crosshatched iron makes up the mesh of an old rusted grate and through the machine fashioned holes,I think I can see him in a room on the other side of this wall making the maze a trap. Orange light takes me to the right directions pours out of a silhouette, a fire. I am singing, putting my fingers to the rusted grate and opening them â&#x20AC;&#x201C; spreading them apart. Suddenly remembering Tooty, then suddenly forgetting him, replaced with heat and flame. The warmth is the only thing I seem to have resembled again. Simply sitting in the tunnel absent minded burning. The concrete is similar to my brain. As though I am an airport inside of forgetting and it feels awful to crawl toward the fire right into the room, with a tended blaze and the memory of chocolate Yorks and Burmese kittens fading with the cold, I can stand up and walk around on my termites. For a long time I try to remember anything at all, but my legs are distracting me, and I find myself looking into each and every hole, for a termite to peck out and eat half-studied. Wandering through each particle as the fire burns softly behind me, A cat appears

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from within the cold memory of the tunnels. He circles around me very quickly, it sounds like something is worrying him and he looks frightened watching the fire as if it is doing something to him I cannot see. When I turn to look at the fire I see that it wasnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t at all fire that worried him, but a door in an attic,it is very clearly now at the far end of the floor. He looks frightened watching the door at the end of the attic and nudging my head from the ground the way someone does desperate to leave, it suddenly dawns on me where we have been this whole time, the memory completely re-loads and I forget the termites and the tunnels and the fake memory of the airport. What has happened and the large fire ablaze behind everything, the other simulation memory, relaxes me into the warmth split with an attic in an old house we need to get out of. The fire in the airport pulls me back out of the attic and keeps me warm. I turn and mutter to Tooty, who rolls over onto his side. And then for a moment I peer down through the hole we made in the floor and see a pile of books covered over the living room -- the buzz of different lights in the kitchen. It sinks in again. The little boy with the switch blade hanging with the mask wearing sheep creep somewhere in this house. They are using an old memory of an abandoned airport they crafted from ether to keep me under while they find us. The room is quiet and Tooty rolls around, side to side, licking at his right and left paws in a way that seems he has forgotten what our situation is. It is as if he has given up and fallen into a simulation memory as I did, where he can go sleep and be

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warm inside of, a made up world.

Grid __________________________________________________

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“Wake up Tooty!” I

shudder, exhausted of my limbs; large format pictures of termite eaten legs again walking tired through Terminals slowly mesh into reference channel one. I am a nap, a slow air-wave curled by fire. My arms a pillow. My gaze off distance, taking me through wonderful darkness. Buried behind snow, I dig hallucinations out, dueling multicolor blankets from flame chewing carpet and wood to the attic. Through broken floorboards the smell of fire carving the room. I'm suddenly onto my feet and Tooty flicks his shoulders letting out his raven wings. I see real legs inside of wooden ones speckled with stars. A shattering door at the end of the room peels into the attic wood, followed by a small creak and Tooty squawking as the little boy in white underwear clutches the peeled skin of something living in one hand his eyes reflecting like mirror. colorful neon pulls over-flowing light in. At that same moment another strange and quick thing happens, entirely rare, this happens with phosphorous gas and a union brand of pink light, the molecules in the room become apparent, just like that, a light from out of nowhere cuts geometrically into separating lines over everything, and the little school boy is seen in his real body as a puffed up, red faced monstrosity with no speed. It looks to be blind on the grid, a slow moving beast with four heads and green fur. Apparently I am faster then he is and Tooty has already ditched outer-space auto-pilot. Left and throwing him off I follow one of the lines before me leading directly into the window, straight out the attic’s door, I dodge and weave the school boy, using the lines as a mathematically conceived escape route. The whole town is covered in the lines, that grid, and I peer out the stairway window as I float

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along the line to see the grids making up every tree, every dollar falling from the trees, every speck of dirt, every stick.

Attack suit __________________________________________________ A moment will pass the thing has no way of locating

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Tooty and I. Then speed of giant fuzzy monster, fast along the lines, I follow them with no trouble at all to the landing before the living stairs. Tooty perched on a shelf of books near one of the intersections in pink (seventy-seven pattern) grid. Handwoven silk-light leads to the front door but is quickly interrupted by a sudden apparition of black sheep skin through streams. invisible fish swim in a line across the path. Double take, too slow. The thing in its clutches already feels through my pockets, molesting. Pink and white gas is gone. Laser grid dissolving slowly on the surface of the front door. Laser hands clenching legs as tight into a little ball as they were built; Pulling me inward as small as I can, I screech the alarm Give up in panic, spasming and flipping over-flowing. And for A long time like this until after a bout of silence I open one of my eyes that I am the carpet next to the sheep suit piled around me. Coming from the moisture ball I see that there is a card attached I start to read.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Welcome to the grid of life, this suit is strictly known for better coordination of your laser hands within this maze of town, be well my young friend.â&#x20AC;?

Bending over and grabbing the suit I

clutch it and run

into the woods toward town.

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____ bee, ship body, flight

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::Strawberry cake::Rabbit suit /homemade hat:: __________________________________________________ Wires graphed into a spiral surround the black suit - enclosing a pink fuzz of spider legs. It is a slow move as I reach for the vines before space, but touching the spiders I see pop ups from within. Making their way around my fingers, a forced momentary glimpse back into town - I linger, looking in through a window of the abandoned house at the far edge of Acacia. Turn the head and thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the office. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m sitting in a chair in a suit, waiting. Flickering halogens above the room singe a green fuzzy over stale concrete in- front of the waiting room window, and after the waiting room window. A lever is heard being pulled far away deep in the ship and on the track, far away a pink bunny suit melting down off a hanger rushes to the window, and slams to a halt. I have the strange and awful feeling that this has happened once before but cannot place the feeling and standing , I wander to the glass. A feeling of dread falls through me as a tumbling rod down three flights of metal stairs, an abstract rhythm circling over me as I walk, the weight of its rhythm cursing the metal into dents. I reach through a hole five or six inches wide and tug the pink suit off of the rusty metal hanger. As I tug it through I see the line hurry back from where it came and a loud horn blows somewhere in the depths of the ship. I pull out the rabbit suit, another metal hanger lines up at another window next to me, and I see that there is no suit hanging on this one. A piece of paper falls from one of the pockets of the rabbit suit. In black ink there is a note

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explaining what the other hanger is for. The black suit, to return it on. I flip off the hood and undress from it, stumbling over in my regular clothes, a white t-shirt and black jeans, shoving the black suit through the six inch hole in the glass. Flipping the piece of paper, I see there is more written on it, it says to put the pink rabbit mask and suit on, that i must wear this suit for my duration of my stay in the ship. The black suit rearranges itself mysteriously, folding up along the window like a living snake and slowly, the way an amoeba might do, the black fur wiggles its way onto the hanger. The line pulls it quickly into darkness and after a moments pause, I climb in, setting the strawberry shortcake suit on my shoulders and putting on the mask. Right away there is a tiny green light flipping on over one of the walls near the waiting room chairs. A low rumbling, then a chair moves back glued to that section of floor. Revealing the scary world of the ship, wires and lines made of grid crisscross horizontally and vertically over everything. Handwriting emerges in it all. And I stand frozen for a long time, in an attempt to decipher the fuzzy words. Then everything switches points once the marks have been categorized in my brain. I flip the hood of the suit down and remove the mask examining what this place appears to be without it, and the words of some madman disappear. Once the rabbit mask is down my frustration leaves and I can make out a tower off in the distance, tied up in metallic ropes and catwalks, like twine. The smell of strawberry ice cream is overwhelming. Then the smell of creosote off of the steel step leads down into the maze of lines. I put the rubber mask on. face and my right

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index finger into the eye hole - flip it on and pull it down to be careful that the rubber inside doesn't snag the little hairs above my forehead Now stepping down into the metallic world of the ship, I pass a strange matrix of integrated circles. The grid begins around me into pink fuzzy slippers down over my feet, Lines intersecting lines send me fast through sound into organized directions, at the front door it looks at me the way a castle looks, a homemade hat pokes from within a coal door, created solely from fibers in the grid. A tiny Rex comes out from under the hat it looks very much like Tooty when he was younger a tabby, when I was fragile I reach down, but the little bugger decides to disappear, appearing elsewhere. The smell of strawberry cake is wearing off inside the rubber lining â&#x20AC;&#x153;Tooty! I missed you -â&#x20AC;? I try and say. My giant rubber gloves make it look like I am in a space suit But it comes out muffled under the rabbit mouth.

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POP ROCKS:: BEE HIVE __________________________________________________ Grinning through rabbit mask at Tooty, I pet his kitten fur and watch as he wipes his cold nose over the wrist of the pink fuzzy suit. He smells them to, the strawberries and slows down his face to stick eyelids over eyelids. He winks in the castles general direction, where the castle walls appear in the background, lit from within, and then he freezes there on the ground, pawing what looks like to me to be smolders over diamonds. A packet of pop rocks is unearthed from the odd black chunks. Tooty kicks the Pop rocks to me and i quickly open them, (this is the first thing I've eaten in a long time.) He unearths a bee's hive and picks at it. Gathering bits of honey on the mini-retractable claws. Slowly, he licks all of the honey away and snatching the bee's from in the air, he paws one that falls to the sub-diamond special floor in the shape of a laser disc. It's chrome. I smell strawberry and creosote. A spaceship from within the chrome disk folds out one of its walls to us and we crawl into the dark tunnel, built into it, Now I am the warmth of the engine pumping and the computer running. The sense of smothering my face in pillows, while lounging in an air conditioned room. We pass deeper into the ship and look out of the windows, A mere circle near the low walkway. Castles giant in size near the top fill in the caverns of my brain.

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I see an airport with crafts landing and then I duck away from the window, careful to follow Tooty, who is already at the ship's bay. He is giving out orders in a foreign realm i cannot understand him and I wait at the door way,in my pink rabbit fur peering through the window at caverns stretching out of the darkness. Coatings of tube lead to conduit, the ivy vines of technology that makes my stomach growl, maybe from the pop rocks. Tooty has a Mohawk and straps in, connecting to his ship. It begins to rain outside and everywhere the electricity ceases up and pops sending short blue flames into the atmosphere the way that the pop rocks had done in my mouth. Tooty loses contact, slamming down his front paws and meowing loudly in foreign tongue. He turns bird wing, turns raven and flies. I wonder if we are still the ship, because the water could effect us if that is the case. The rain hits hollow points, I hear it echo from all of the rooms across the distance and the ship rattles. Tooty flies into other rooms, where I follow, and now I feel it effecting me, the lag of my legs after my torso. I am a bunched up rabbit suit crossing the deck from another eyesight. The ship is a tiny clay toy they built ( and I know it) and I am a giant monster in all pink, my hands are bigger than the door, my look could kill. and huge, I wander looking and feeling like big foot through the tunnel curving along a dark backdrop from some fifties science fiction movie. All the gray in the window boggles big fat brain of pink bunny rabbit. I step down into the dust, flecks of it enter the rabbit paws and see where we are. I am looming for Tooty in this watered down moss of dripping

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wires. Up in the vines, a strange animal lets out a noticeably angry cry and I get back into the ship, the strawberry smell wiped out of the suit, now replaced with the odor of wetness. In time wet will smell bad. Everything will smell like mold, everything i come in contact with unusually reeks now of black shit. I sit down in a chair shaped to the size of me near the far window and shaken from waiting to be normal size, I settle and listen to the rain tapping on the outside of the ship, it patters softly in rhythm and then Tooty flies in and the ship closes up tight. We are flying again, the wire branches scrape on the outside of the craft and we are in a network of stars in a constellation attaching into the brain of the ship, leading it around with deep sense, our meeting place of the body and the chrome, merging directly with metal and flesh, the ship senses the movement left, and we fly left, the ship senses down and we fly down. Other crafts buzzing around next to our merged body appear, the further into darkness the more the ship senses our directional vibration. A meeting place in a broken hive at the far edge of darkness, at the top of a castle emerges. The craft tips onto one side, and the others surrounding us follow, all of us lined up in order to change formats, that of digital into analogues A swarm of bees all settling into the hive.

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METAL BEACH::MECHANICAL OCEAN __________________________________________________ Bees. Weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re all just bees settling into the hive, in our original form. I think about the school boy and wonder what happened to Lex, where she could be and crawling back into a deeper section near the back of the bee shape, I peek through a window and watch as people in rabbit suits exit the crafts. Tooty turns back to a cat and wanders from the ship, approaching a thick black liquid. He swims into it, meowing irritably, and making his way to a pad of metal across the black, where he turns back to me and meows, then shakes violently. The liquid takes a long time to settle from his wake and in my pocket, I feel the crumpled piece of paper with instructions on it. It feels good to be back in average size, at least I think I may be back to normal size again, my skin feels loose as if it would slip right off if I moved too fast. I see luggage float by in the black,intrigued as to how I will get across. I factor in the luggage, and walk up to the liquid, bend down and touch it. Some conveyor pulls me into it, abrupt and throwing my legs into the air and pushing me through the water without doing anything, suddenly I am under water, And I see Tooty looking at me worried from the shore. I am being swept away. Brown and gray water passing over the shoulder of the suit is all I see and I notice mounds of luggage beneath the dark water through a stream of light from the sun, cases with travel stickers on the outsides of them glow near my head

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twisting slowly. Then Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m dry and sat propped next to Tooty on the metal beach. We are watching the waves of a mechanical ocean push bags up and cases into segmented areas, systematic, the ocean appears to be organizing all of it, and Tooty shakes off irritated, getting me wet a little and we watch the mechanical sun rise up towards the noticeable dome over head. Near that, I barely make out people rising as well all across the dome construction, other humans in bear suits unpacking from the swarm. I wonder about Lex, if she might be on one of those ships if they are using her for her milk. It makes me suddenly very sad to picture her in a room being robbed of her milk for her calves. I see the rubber housing of the tubes coming from the suction apparatus giving her infections. I see the infections closely from here, her eyes caked with tears from being forced to give away her freedom. Her back has been broken by those animals, I just know they are hurting my Lexington. If I could wish one thing, one thing right now, I wish Lex would be safe. I picture her as a woman, she has long brown hair and blue eyes, peeking over the edge of the rabbit suit at me. She winks and touches my hand softly, saying she missed me.

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______________ FIRST FLIGHT, MEMORY

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TOOTY SHIFTS:

__________________________________________________ The chocolate York morphing in larger bovine skin, Tooty shifts into being. Eyes pressed over his part of the metal beach, bee's swarm from a broken hive. And I see her through the fuzz of their bodies crossing. She winks, licking the hive of honey. Mechanisms of the ocean organize luggage around us, she licks the hive clean. Lex stands before me. An awkward expression on her face, she eats honey around the bees, staring. I see a diamond necklace over her broad shoulders, new tufts of white hair growing next to it, and I grasp the diamonds, tugging down, and pulling myself closer. â&#x20AC;&#x201C;The smell of mustangs, and the wild rose. I hug tight and get the image of a strawberry patch she got into. The honey, drooling off of her ear flips back and forth. Tears turn to laughter as I fight myself and feel the overwhelming embrace of her. A small shudder echoes through us and she stops eating, staring at the waves. The sun mechanically fits the sky, like a circle of metal fit back into place on the sheet where it has been cut. A cold silence blankets our beach and climbing

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down, I hold the necklace firm, watching her rise her eyes to the clouds (made of shaved alloy.) They press on overhead by their pulleys and ropes. We watch the sky fold down, over an area in the warehouse and as this happens Lex turns back to a bird. She flies in the darkness, circling overhead, before landing on my shoulder, squawking hello, nudging my cheek once in a loving manner. We walk the sand particles of the metal beach toward the collapsed sheets of the sky. Piled to the ceiling are large broken pieces of the old sky. The floor unclogs and in a place the ocean drains out of the building as we walk. Inches of gray water dwindle down the drain and Lex nudges my chin.

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SOFT CRYSTAL: FIRST FLIGHT __________________________________________________________

Lex tugs at me, until I fall out from a spot I had been hiding in her ear. She shakes her head, no. Then squawks loudly; pointing her beak behind me. I turn and see them. Giant, blue crystal that softens at the edge, coming out of my backbone, through the suit. The wing span of a giant bird crossing my back. When I relax my arms the crystals jut out seven feet on both sides behind me. A force pulls me up off the ground. Air moves through the fibers of my bones, lifting me into the air without effort. Ruffling her wings, Lex flies ahead, leading the way through the warehouse, over the alloy clouds across the pounded copper beams. She turns to me as I lift the clear wings over my head. A sort of natural movement, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve done this before, this is second nature. I inhale quickly next to her, exhale and push down on the wings, rising higher toward the buildings ceiling of stars (light bulbs in rows) Inhales move me up, exhales create a glide. Next to her, I let my eyes rest over the beach, now a concrete island in a great concrete swimming pool without water. Her eyes reflect the light bulbs. A smell of ozone blends together and I follow and she leads. over a section of buildings on the other side of the sky. Caverns made of Plexiglas fly underneath, giant castle walls

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come into view in front of us. I touch the wall as we swoop down, touching a memory. Lex perches in the steeple at the top of one building and her wings relax next to her.

__________________________________________________ I enter a memory I stored inside of the walls years ago. A bright light, a small boy standing in front of the mirror. I let go, and swing to the perch next to her spasming squawks. She points her beak at the stars and looks for a long time at the them. Down at the ground, I watch as a boy in the memory grows from the castle into the dirty street and runs. Lex stares into the stars, stops to clean her feathers and trembles. She gets herself snug underneath the bell. It starts to snow. Mismatched in the satellite recovery, the last form of the boy is seen running into a subway as we fall asleep, wrapped up in our wings and dozing off for this night.

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______ Acacia

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__________________________________________________________ ( I wake up to a peeling sound on the cold steps of the steeple.) Tricky little sub town structure. A moment of thought. Trying on the patch work, iris stocking and fur pullover. Fear lives underneath the skin of the flowers, and I vomit looking at it. I am back in town. The pink fur

of African Fawns, and a mammal from the Galapagos islands puddled in dollar bills there, arm in arm. Tooty swoops out of the house before me and the grid appears from beneath the mammal pile. Stained, bone flavor floats in my mouth, adjusting the legs. By the far edge of the house glowing over. Last look, the sheep suit in my hand. I try not to throw up. A density, a crochet, a neon thread converging in rat kings, a relationship they formed beneath me. The suit has been knit in four stitch. Tooty is blur, I am blur on the

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layer of thread it systematically maps lines for firmament. Embedding numbers 3.5 and 7.4, figures appear, woven in sky. Diagrams. Encryptions (3.7) turn to (7.3) as I set one foot to the ground to walk, numerics start up. Town shuffles through hymnals, the order of designed chaos, the worms ripping pink grid, upside down 7.3 to 3.7, sheets of newspaper heard tearing around the 'room.' (The grid area) 3.75 and going fast,

pulls into a cavern in my arm. My wrist is fused to laser gloves. Controls fairly even; Tooty perches on my shoulder on a raven stand. She shakes away deer ticks from her ruffles, looks at me, (her eyes) glow in a jar, hold her soul. Every strand of the grid. (Pink string) plugged into her from a back hatch. Weaving a loading cord in through her cavities, along a fine length of her chest, the woods reflect black (a motion picture inside of her chest) stuck to the middle of it.

Error in the past sequence now surrounds a gold leaf picture frame, where I am holding a flower stitched pullover suit and extension cables. Protected by this grid of our lineage, the color of our threads, us. Our direction. Swimming world in tangles because (we are told) a heavy cluster of wire (A):is stopping to perch inside a cable or (B): has built in lines woven to it. Coordinates to the basic designer appear near the trees in my right peripheral. Tooty pecks a bundle of threads to say 'I don't get it,' and I am pulling apart the fabric of the monkey suit with my pointer finger and thumb, investigating what it wants from us. She gets a few good worms, shredding out neon hosts as they hide away in the fur of the pullover. Poorly with her talons (The engineer/ programmer) parts the reality. A cute red bike and a parked Oldsmobile, green houses lined by river. I cannot focus my eyes as it comes undone. Examination of these

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strings shows a bond forming in the suit. Grid lines become parts of the map. Integrating numb data. After a moment of running lights - the main street of town appears. A school house building is sewn in, various threads in brown canvas, pink yarns, linen bag, stretched over reality. Stapled into view along olive wood frames. Town is inside of a cocoon. Mid-winter, Nineteen Fifteen. Photographs had originally been developed with copper plates in a sepia tone developer. The dollars were captured in the photograph using microscopic films to achieve the blowing effect through trees. School house and swing sets all represented digitally, through yarn, copper plates, gels, through wood grain. Through plugs, through wires, through marble. Cold, pink lines, built of triangles, attachable that evening, settled in the developer. Picture. I pull a note from a pocket in the black fur suit. Folding it open, and attempting again, some form of understanding, I witness a new marking engraved in the paper, another grid within a grid within a grid, a replica of hand writing. I have seen this in the office before. Hybrid. Russian stirred Mayan. The note comes into focus: :[enter town (area seven,) by supplementing this body armor in sub-town area five, where area five meets area seven]:: [>] [^] [<]

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AREA 5+7] __________________________________________________________

The note draws up light from a weave in the thin cotton to air. Inside the pastel card, the letters line in the dimensions of rag to the oxygen molecules dispersing e's followed by exiting C's. The note is blank. Dollar bills blow by at my feet, onto Tooty. Since before reality he has been curled around my legs. The black suit is squirming. Laser hand shuffles through settings in the teal interface. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Maybe Its the demon suit. Lead me astray on the grid, huh Toot?Tooty shivers, jumps from my foot, shaking dollars off of her violently and letting out a small, perturbed yawn. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Town, that sews me to the wrong threads! Never in my entire stay have I heard of Town, Tooty?" She

shakes her head and sneezes.

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â&#x20AC;&#x153;Sub town At

the note again, I check pronunciation as it disappears in digits, no pronunciation! I make out the last E's bleeding a tiny dance, numbers maybe? Temptation is to put on fur, watch thick growing, uncontrollable urge and have strange burdens. That seems to be right, I am by the minute plagued. I linger in the middle of the field,waiting for Tooty to get out of the clutters of her yawn. If I go back to the (cat house) they would know about Town, this sub town. Or maybe, you'll just put on the suit. (dead mammal's, raccoon, bear, dinosaur.)No, No, No! No put on the suit! Who said that, Tooty? You say that? The animals fall apart, I thrash them around. Whispering dollar bills, folding over each other in wind. School boy activates behind me. Somewhere, an array of digital one, zero. Tooty jumps from the dollars, stuck midyawn and relapsing to raven, forms wings, perches on and digs into my shoulder. I see it standing in the window of the house for a millisecond. Thoughts spin in its mind. It deactivates. Now this moment with concrete fingers, I am unraveling the edges of the suit. It executes painful symmetry on my flesh and methodically, loving, inserts tiny knives into the concrete hands. Put it on now. Screeches from the activity place. Out of a far radio, tucked behind a window, a weapon from five dimensions, intermingled persona, just another item in a sorceress hat collection. Inspecting threads, I get back to work beginning on the loose weave of the three joints making up the knees. A part between the armpit opens into a tiny threaded hole of raccoon ligaments, I fear the exact mph these holes move in,

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and see the threads move in order to force shut the air. \A violence in (*) mmmmmmm0oim dismemberment mp,m,,m,m;autoimmune0}

Feeling comes from each thread in black objects, is of excruciating evil, and in no way has place. Throwing suits down in the dirt, I swiftly bury them. ( *2 ) ]]\

{LO)OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOooo9 I wind down to the school house and brush dollar bills from trees as I open the heavy wooden door. A wall of eyes slams behind me and pale light of evening folds slowly in, through the window. A shutter after

burial, picturing suits in slow attempts to inject thread in me, I am slithering on the internal lengths of numbers, as to form adjustments with my skin. A second tying of my bone is sinking in the lace of it. The third adjusting of my skin is itself in the fat and the muscle of it. Tooty climbs off of my shoulder and morphs onto an old stage. This time she is a Selkirk Rex kitten, prowling behind thick velvet curtains with an umbrella. She wanders around a wild notion in a state of cat paranoia, while I look for Town. Reestablishing general cleanliness, (as to create a central space,) stacking boxes of code print outs commences in the corner of the room. ________________________________ (*) TERM Glitch: Unraveling reality taking place within the applications screen.

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(*2) TERM Glitch set: Repeated unwinding of data occurs within the standard coding (possible virus interruption by programmer) Also known as playful interaction between the coder and receiver of codes.

Sleep] __________________________________________________ Boxes of clues on top of boxes of clues. A map of town marked with green dates. A burned copy of the original. Three marks in the wood, three violent claw marks that are coded, printed on sheets of rice paper. Overlapping numbers through the stacks. Boxes of this: ________________________ [ ,b'/<OK''/]o,o,8u6u89mmmmm mm98umu000000000000] Figures ________________________ 00000000000000000000000000000mp-;-l866po8p knuckle 0o.lllllllllllllln

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________________________ (I.) Paper is flipped up in the room. Digital code ink blobs and paper. Neat geometric patterns, rain here. I drop near a lawn chair and ponder its existence. Thinking about the patch work and me. Get a shovel and dig a hole near trees where he cannot go. Try. Live there. I want to throw it away, get it out of my site. It pulls me toward it, It wants me to regret this if I see to its death. Folding it up into neat fours, I set it down near the paisley window and sit on the white lawn chair.

Dreaming in unicorn vision] Second Sleep. __________________________________________________ I get up and shuffle my coat onto my legs, lying back next to her, my vision goes thick velvet, red curtain, thick dark cotton. Shapes behind appear a low lit stage, Tooty crashing her face into my skin, and in a maniacal giggling manner. Wrapped suddenly across me, the noise: muffled peep recognized by hands pulling me apart limb for limb. This process is called deconstruction (undoing of threads.) Being enacted with a set of tools, laser hands they use to destroy with, the suit has me. Menacing Giggles out in the distance, coming near the paisley window. Little curtains of glass, threads my body. My guts are

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being taken out and set aside. I cannot breathe, witnessing the shards of metal dis-attaching the liquefied bone. I stand up in a sudden gliding, off in red curtains on the clouds. My feet on stage, no matter, the curtain grasp, folding sunshine at an edge of tropical forest. Forget it, I can't leave her behind. The birds fly to me and peck into pieces (within a matter of seconds) the old mask I had been wearing. We're all the same now, gliding low in the sky on a valley of trees. I grab a hold of curtain in its plush red velvet and arrive at the school. Lifting Tooty, (who turns into a cup and saucer) green tea steaming as I spill some on my leg passing back through. A note reads: Don't drink Tooty, unless you want to kill. At the edge of the saucer curtain, falls out of view. A cat fish comes at me through bubbly. I ask the air in branches, of discombobulation of reality. Tooty seems as though she has become a peacock. She turns to face me in the bubbling light, a glow of random eyes the color of bent glass, sequins, sends me whirling about theater, in vision of two rows (one theater and one peacock feather) does double in one picture. I see legs as somebody else's, giant hooves, white fur leading my eye to thick monster wings jutting from within my back.

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Jointed from a larger picture] __________________________________________________ We launch out in a cloud, wing made of the horizon. Tooty peacock clutches my back wind and warm tastes, like sea water, pushing our wings deep in the salt, the pale blue of sky below whistles up. A puzzle of a town, the land has been tilled and built up on. Wood and layered cakes, bunkers and shops. We descend in a small area of marble. At the sea's cliff we land on top of a roof, inspecting a tiny glass window in the place. A quint magic shop filled with gnome characters and cast, bearded fishermen. A large gold clock hangs by the window display. It changes times on it. We look away and

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watch as it changes. No one tends the store. My hooves rest in compressed sand on the roof top. Sets of stairs going north to the hills up an avenue, dark gray are lined with shops. Tapering to a great dark shade of cob huts along the walls of a neat cave, another set of stairs traverses up along the descending ground of the shop. I trot down ragged slope of the cobble stone near the forest, peeking into the magic shop one last time before Tooty and I make our way along little sunken sidewalk. Up, on an open grove of trees, Tooty stops short suddenly, calmly glancing back. Her wings open to the direction of woods her neck stiffens with. She releases an irritating sound I have never heard,of a chicken. Building irritation that explodes into noise, a sonic resonance passing into the aqueduct, shooting everywhere at once, echoing. I notice little figurines of bearded men, standing on the cobble stone street; each a replica of the next. All have the same, casted expression on their hand painted faces. Bent necks tilt the little gnome faces down at something on the ground that I cannot make out. All have been fired with heads pointed down. Tooty, (not seeing the figurines) continues her squeaking in the woods. Her feathers brilliant beside the gray Malachite. She folds them down behind her, calm comes over her tiny bird mask. The cobble stone slope to the figurines tapers and then grows. I knock a figure of a garden elf over and it shatters open onto the cobble stone. The other figurines shift castes, molded looking at my direction. I didn't

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notice any movement in my periphery. They congregate around a hole, the gnome people shatter under my giant hooves; I sniff at the darkness and see something deep under ground. Something that comes closer. It gets right up to the cobble stone edge where a patch of moss has grown, and becomes a velvet cloth. I sniff the edge of the velvet. Tooty, (a gray cat) curls around my arm, a long tail flipping up sporadically, her paws on my chest. Outside, the air is blowing dollars off of a tree behind the theater. Rubbing my eyes, watching them drift passed, I wonder (in my haze of sleep) what the figurines had been, wishing I had wings. Vortex suit. Found Mirror] __________________________________________________________

A reason to stand, I'm planning to stand, I don't stand. No where in sight, not found peeling my eyes open, I decide and shut them right away, back to sleep. For a moment I catch glimpses in the window, rain drizzling through bare trees. Wind pushes little segments of sequin beads to the window pane. I close my eyes, feeling my Rex cuddled under my thighs, slowly a tiny yawn. I readjust my arms and drift far into sounds that the rain taps on the schoolhouse. Patters dancing in the black forest of my head. Cartoons - a lit up stage arriving on tires. Rain drops dressed in outfits. Puzzle pieces from an elephant puzzle around waists, lights on.

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A roaring, crackling open, upstairs window waking me to a theater. The stage lifts my head slowly with a streak of panic under my chin. Kitty has already run off, near boxes stacked by the wall. We both look to the ceiling. We stare in panic, in wood grain. There is no upstairs of this building, I am sitting very still,

staring at the wood. Dust falls, followed by heavy sounds on the roof. Off the stage, I wander to a door, watching movements in the periphery. It moves to a far paisley window. Rain builds rows of light in pathways, impossible to see through. A plastic, sheep mask drops from the edge of the roof, peeking into the theater (its breath already inside) the plastic sheep mask twisting and melting with the lines of rain. Tooty sees it behind the boxes, meows, syllables the thing outside talks through. The plastic mask hangs upside down in the window. I lock the door slowly. The voice becomes clear as Tooty changes form behind the box. More codes, a rambling nothing to say. A program running dashes, periods. Slashes More dreadful, I come from the door into the theater, watching the melting mask. Tooty has gone. Three sixty and the room blurs, stencils of chicken wire.

I cannot stop the grated blur as it spins. I see the end of his tail around the back of one box. It could see me watching it and I see myself in a mirror. The mirror is blending. I used to come here when I was a child, never once a mirror. In it, dark figures stand behind me. Figures dressed in black, eight year old boys. Knocking a lamp and boxes over, the lamp shatters. Shards of glass blend away with beads of water, the wood floor sucks it all through cracks. Boxes stacked in a disarray fall, replaced by the boy.

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I hurry to the stack where I had seen Tooty. I see two things: one is Tooty peering from a hole into other parts of the building. The other is a pair of pearls, eyes under a mask. Directly, for a moment, I notice no hole, the illusion made of corners. I mutter, moving back away from the fallen boxes. “Tooty?” “Tooty?

From the boxes black shapes, masked wolf details jump to feet and pause at the door. Pausing in mid air, it scans the room until it gets me in its view. Over a whole stack of boxes it leaps toward me, lands hard and I make out the mask switching through faces; tiger mask made in Taiwan, rabbit mask made in Sweden. Richard Nixon mask. A scream is heard at the swing sets across the street. An odd silence takes form after, into darkness, night. Hours go undisturbed. The sound of crickets grows as the front door of the old school house opens. A dark figure steps into the night. The crickets quiet to the shape. It looks over both shoulders and walks into the forest behind the old theater.

A door shuts by wind as the suit stumbles through pink lines, soft pink light of the grid. Onto a hillside, the lines following a dark wood behind the school house, the daylight whispering away behind it. Suits pass into an orange pink glow. Bright light grows as it pulls in the first subject (suit.) Neon pink lines over everything, deep. Forest is mapping coordinates. Deep vortex of shapes emerges. Stepping ladders lead the suit far into the sky. A ship floats in the center of the vortex. Snakes below, wolves above, the suit tries carefully through impeding beasts, to create, the ships horizon sinking into space.

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INVOKE

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\\\\\\\\\\

__________________________________________________________ I put the suit on and school boy wanders out of the house like he's been crushed under neath something. His hand holds his little head as he wanders up to me. To the suit and mutters something. He signals to the house and turns around, I follow him. When we get inside of the house he shows me a picture album of myself, and aggressively points to me and tootsy. He makes a signal, moving his hand across his neck, as if to imply that I should cut my own head off. He pulls out another album and points to the photograph of the old abandoned silo tucked deep inside of the forest. I haven't been to the place in years, he had wiped it from the forest centuries ago. I nod my

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head, implying that I will be there. He holds up an old clock. The time is 123.4. I watch the numbers rearrange to 3:21 am. He points to this set of numbers and takes me to the kitchenette where an old fashioned calendar taken out of the nineteen fifties shows pictures of women dressed in house wife outfits, they smile but their eyes have been rubbed out with something. He points to tomorrow and writes something with a small apparatus. Wipe all their data. I nod gently and school boy evaporates into his grin.

Atlantis town :: Sub town:: __________________________________________________________ I beckon Tootsy, who swoops out of the house in haste behind me. He whispers in my ear. He heard everything. The grid re-appears from behind the dollar bill trees by a far edge of town, closing in over every last point of the forest and looking down at the sheep suit covering my hand, I see that it's glowing in a dense crochet of neon pink threads. they seem to be connected, they have to do with each other. It is as if the suit had been hand knit. Tootsy and I are a blur, running our hands through the layers of thread mapping lines cross the firmament between everything, and he turns to look at me with his eyes glowing pink. The oranges and every string of grid line begins to grow brighter until we are swimming in pitch black, using the lines to

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coordinate our direction. With deep black strength, the swimming world of glowing tangles becomes a heavy cluster of wires. Stopping to perch somewhere inside a cable line, Tootsy pecks a bundle of threads and I begin pulling apart the fabric of the monkey suit with my pointer finger and thumb and for some reason or another I cannot focus my eyes as it comes undone, and through examination the strings form a bond from the suit through the grid lines, and become part of the map. I have become like him, a virus attaching to this town. After a moment from - the main street of town appears. Some of the buildings drawn up in pink threads, the rest is a mid-winter picture of dollars blown in the wind. The school house has become the library this whole time. Swing sets are all represented digitally, in cold, pink digital lines, a representation of school boy hangs in the swings, built up of such triangles. Evening is settling over everything as I pull a note from the pocket of the suit, folding it open and attempting again something of understanding, a new thing has been engraved into the card paper, a replica of the same hand writing in different context, and bringing the note into focus I read on: For directions to the library, please animate the schoolboy figure guarding the door with this pass code, he will come to life and help you find what documents you are looking for. Owl enter Atlantis town. If you forget to say this three times Schoolboy will instantly reanimate in different stages, so be careful. Do not stutter. -A Pearl Night (area six), please re-a line this Perle Pl ex night jump suit original with your body in sub-town area five, where area five meets area six, there after you turn back around, you will now be in Atlantis town (area six instead of your before area five), Please leave sub town.

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please remember to drop the purple flex jump suit off in the box labeled purple p lex in sub-town area five. I ponder the note for a moment watching dollar bills blow by at my feet piling onto Tootsy, I have got him. I nudge tooty to get into the suit. He stares up at me. I grab him and pull him in. He reads the note and calms back into a patch box near my hip and we walk up to school boy guarding the entrance to the library. Owl enter Atlantis town, Owl enter Atlantis town, owl enter Atlantis town! The body jerks to life and turns to us, mechanically staring into the suit for a long moment, his eyes are pure white marbles, a fear comes over me and I begin to move away. He grabs my arm and pulls me over to the library doors across the blvd. Halsey blvd. I am careful to not speak, Tooty squirms inside, but the machine guard sees nothing. He walks us to the first aisle of manuscripts and shoves his hand into a box next to the door. The box glows blue light and the machine boy casually shuts down, head bent down onto one shoulder., hands draped at the sides. I HAVEN'T BEEN HERE IN A LONG TIME, BUT EVERYTHING IS EXACTLY AS IT WAS BEFORE. The labels have been taken down thoughtfully. He doesn't want anyone to learn, so that he can keep control over the town. Codes, I need codes. Mostly programming prompts. I need his most influential code book. This town is a coded matrix, vertically and horizontally, someone watches me from outside of the windows. Watches me from behind my shoulder-blades. Tooty nudges to get out and I push him back. But he will not stop and wiggles his way out, dropping onto the floor of the library. I peer back at schoolboy, who is passed out over the box next to the door way. Tooty cleans at his feathers and looks around, flapping his wings. The sound echoes through the stacks of books and reaches the schoolboy guarding the door who slowly animates back to life. Tooty runs around to the other side of the shelves and clutches a book from the low shelf near him. The book hits the floorboards and the sound reaches the schoolboy guard,

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who shuts back down. And stale stands at the doorway entering a slime covered hand back into the box. The cover of the book is blank and I lift it, open it and readjusting myself I realize that he has found a book on recoding animals in this town. The page with ravens on them have three lines of reference for the original DNA, Cattle being one of them. A cat and female human the other two. I remember her now as I look at this. My wife. She had been beautiful, long locks of gray hair, she had been old at the time of our parting, I am at the beginnings of a new set of memories. I look down at Tooty. She looks at me and squawks. “Shh.” I hold my hand over the suit and the schoolboy comes to animation at last in the door way, walking swiftly to the aisle. I grab another book and slam it against the floorboards but the schoolboy doesn't stop. Instead Tooty comes out into the aisle and squawks at the schoolboy machine and then comes around to where I am. School boy charges at me with a strange vacant look on its face, and then reaches to a book at the top of one shelf, pulling it down and handing it to me, then charging back to the door where he shuts back down, hand in the box. I open the book to the first page which is unrecognizable. It is not even in language, or pictures but in dots, a series of large and minuscule dots. I flip throughout, scanning thousands of pages of the same kind of dots set up in a variable of patterns. This must be something, but what. I set the book down next to the other and shuffle for more, pulling down a book with the words reference printed onto the spine. On the cover is a engraved circle, there is nothing inside of it. I open the first page and see that the same dots are being explained. Four large dots seem to be an equation. I scan for a similar pattern as the complex ones in the other text, finding even more complex equations. These are labeled by setting. There is one for each part of a simulation of a town. This is it. I begin decoding some of the other book. “The forest takes over the old factory.” Is all that I can make out. I take the two books inside of the suit and grab Tooty, my wife into the pocket. We will not have any reason to meet in three hours underneath the old factory. I leave the library, watching closely the figure standing empty in the door

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way. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Bye.â&#x20AC;? I say. No response. I dig into my pockets inside of the suit and they are there! I cannot believe it, this all really did happen. I make my way into the forest behind the exit of town and kneel down before a pine try where I gather dry dollar bills into a bundle and tear pages from the book. I crumple them up and create a ring of pages around a circle and pull out the matches I had found while in the airport. I strike one and the flame rises, starting the dry sticks and dollars. The pages begin to start up. Little dots of code move around suddenly, lighting up and turning blue and then black, they are eaten by the flames. A part of the forest goes back in the distance and the flames rise intoxicating my senses. I tear more pages from the book, throw them into the fire and the swings dissipate. The green grocer that had been there twenty years ago reappears. People from town begin to emerge from inside. They are already shopping again. I tear more out and then finally throw the book down into the fire, watching the flames lap up coding. I throw the other books in and watch as she appears before me. Anamorphic shifting occurs, leaving the wings in place. It is my wife. She looks at her hands, and tears come from her eyes. Madison! Is that you? She cries, her eyes full of tears. It is me. I say. I can talk again. I place my hand over my mouth and feel the AIR as it comes through in each word. That was horrible! What just happened.

She runs at me covers me in hugs, her wings wrap around my whole body, and we stand over the fire holding each other.

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Zachary Scott Hamilton lives in Portland, Oregon. He is currently working on his second book Collection of Jars.

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Section Press 2012 5028 NE 26th Street Portland, OR 97211 USA Journeysintospace@gmail.com

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Infiniity  

Isaac is lost in a holographic town with his transport cow Lexington, when they run into a sinister child named 'Schoolboy' who can murder p...

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