Let's play a game this evening. I'll compose the rules. Only you must listen carefully. Lay your head on the pillow as i explain. Not a battle for conquest, not a contest of wits. We are all on the same side, moving together as a single matter. The silence here is pleasurable, representing a perfect coalescence, not a disassociation. The boundaries of restriction do not exist as we play, there is no monitor on watch tonight. These rules are palatable; no board to upset, no pieces to organize, define, modify: instead we do this to the very air we breathe. We do this with our unified skin--the body that curves like the globe.
I dare not call this a pastime. There is nothing agreeable about the passing of time: this play of ours brings us closer to death, leaves us in a vulnerable posture. No way to cover up our defects--that's where it always gets in. There are dice involved in this game, of course, but none of the players can operate them. We can hear the sound of them falling, scuttling, again and again. This unseen hand throws well. Is there any reason why you should raise your head from your pillow now?
Deviation: who gives a fuck for this game? I know its in the closet, but i'll be damned if i'm gonna pull it out anytime soon. That silence will have its time soon enough. So, come on.
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Something's pressing on my walls, painting the edges of my doors in capillary strokes that give way in the breeze, alive. Damn the sunlight, over and over again.
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Ending with a:
Curse: May the forest take you, may you be transformed into a deep, green silence.
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Under the tree (lift ye the roots) you will find the notes of a song that knows how to cut, makes marks of the saw on these tender lines.
The song sculpts a shape that turns to original stone.
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