At The Beginning Again

Striation paradox, minutes stretched across the sky's ceiling, then falling onto the city below. Motion becomes labyrinthine and beautiful, too beautiful to even approach our understanding.

All cartographies seem to freeze, new faces lost hopelessly in laughter and play, the dazzling hues of pink leaping from the concrete before returning to their song.

Iam thick, opaque glass and: the world over guarding perfectly ample hips, fearing they will dissolve and waft through lonely, dirty alleyways; memories led to the edge of the sea and given a gentle nudge outwards; cigarette smoke rising unexpectedly from the pages of an open book to complain about how resigned it has become to its condition; a final telepathic fuck-you, another syringe withdrawn from another emaciated arm; astronauts wandering the margins of space, eyes glazed over, still chasing after the ecstasy their visors tell them is right there.