S/he pinches at a blister in her wrist. Her teeth touching delicately like cupcakes.  How did it get there? S/he is sitting on a pipe in a derelict sewer system. S/he tries to pull at this blister in her wrist. When she pulls there is only a tender spot. When she pinches there is a blister. Her lower jaw slides like a curling stone over a curling sheet. She tries to push up this blister from below. Must have tried this before. She looks askance at a beam of sunlight thru a manhole. She slams a heel against a pipe. Deterioration echoes through the creaky underground. And a dripping somewhere quickens. She sucks at the splinter in her wrist. She sucks at her other wrist, magical thinking, makes a small case for symmetry. She imagines her repetition and feels with imagined holes in her body. Her teeth are so, perfect, they move lightly, as if hardly,


S/he is sitting in a well / bring water. Dirty mix up. Prying at her nails to make the darkness seem more tangible, sculptable. / stars in my eyes / dust in my face. A slate of sunlight. A cone of shadow. Bring water. For to breathe in water for. Hair floating tendrily to the surface. And a body that water bends. ‘Are you well down there?’ asks a shout from terror, from below s/he would’ve sworn, thru the slant of sun, but from below. S/he does not understand his words as meaning. Words, ok, chalkdust on her skin. Dust on her face / stars in her eyes. Can you be b(l)inded by stars? he asks of hisself with his eyes shut tight like a baby who does not want to eat.


S/he is sitting in a room. There is a door and its key is on her tongue pushing gently against her teeth (cat’s paw). It tastes as would be expected. Metallic, tinny. S/he imagines the key sinking further into her tongue. A song of infinite slowness fills the air, unheard, the room is not empty. S/he sits on a wooden floor in an otherwise empty room. There is a wooden chair. There is an infinitely slow song that fills the air. S/he feels her face fall in two when at once all of the star light falls across her face. Or a half of a face slide away as if suddenly hard sand collapses. Happenings of animals have been being happening. Thru the open window a sparrow has flown ((almost) as if there were no window). Flies, spiders, the small unseen household pests, teams of termites, spiders. If I laugh like a madwoman they may open the door. I can do this? S/he can pull out the hairs on her head one by one. S/he is pulling the hairs out of her one by one head. S/he will not bleed? Someone may or may not open the door. There are more on a head with black hair. And there are private hairs. We could say 150000 hours (17 years). This could work there might be change. That is a, a … it might not take that long.


A drill in the courtyard, bored persistence. The sun slams down like a UFO beam but slant. S/he stares askance to practice. S/he taps her fingers on her fingernails, except the thumb. The sound of rain, or of teeth grinding, or of a box grater. S/he feels she must – magical thinking – tap her other fingernails with her other fingers. A mailing-list-lurker turns into a troll. He is asked to desist! He has a final word before desisting. Does this count? Difficult to tell. He looks up desist up in uh, dictionary. Oh baw, oh boe,


In a field (desert) s/he makes, marks, on paper, one for each person (sometimes more than one). S/he makes them beautiful. With all of herself, s/he makes a group of marks, for every each person s/he can keep up with. S/he might call them sacrifices. In a desert (meadow) s/he sits disappearing into the sand, the nomads, bump by on camels and wrapped in thick colours. What is this, what kind, of dream? Because they see her? They do not change their position; they do not use their voice boxes, their vocal chords; they do not change their behaviour. But they see her, s/he, saw. A storm rises; the horizon disappears. The sand is no longer sublime; the sand is boring.

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