Cultural Looping Syndrome

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The carpet under my feet is red.

We translate draught from a passing river. Cold hands accelerated movement to nowhere. Rich pine tar held together the vortex, as the echoes summon a horizontal schemata. I'm the architect of this collapse.

"I'm just a vector (and neither are you)."

The spirits roam these octagonal halls, slapping against the shades of some other future. What good is spontaneity without the last remaining slaves-can we be judged and forgiven by our victims?

Stepping through the cold fire we trigger an event that will shape our past. The beach fumes are radically old and carry the probability of wave failure. In a previous life, I was the breath passing between your lips. I was the rain in an immersive storyline. I was the mutation of space outside the myth of power and desire. In a succession of new narrative chains, the godchild establishes itself. Searching for temperature in the void, his identity remains only influence. My fingers investigate the distance between death and sunlight. I liked it better when you were volatile. And now, the mere nakedness of our drama includes the late stages of a petrified philosophy.