Sunday August 13th 10:49 pm

Describe the curvature of the fingers: delicate, seemingly casual, yet, in truth, stringent in their performance. This is a performance after all, pure composition on display. And i throw my critique upon the wall like sour paint and i mouth the word manipulation; it sounds moist. But this moisture is sweet, I like its texture as it tickles my tongue, gives my teeth a wet edge that is satisfying. Reading, the pages are damp with others' saliva. Reading: steam.
Walk around the room and find its edges; this may be difficult, because it's off the page. Use your imagination, take wild guesses that you know are wrong. Design a personality that fits. Are the walls reflective of any interiority? How does the interplay of choice work here? In the morning, i turn on the lamp and read, making the blue wall of the bedroom fade. I don't think when dressing, a choice in reach only (proximity). We hit the correct word: proximity is the issue here. Keep looking at the composition; it's never close enough. Keep throwing paint on it, the coloured bubbles returning your own reflection. Again and again: the paint slides off, down along the wall, wanders across the floor, then gathers, assuming the form of a human being, business casual, gets a good job and later moves into a 20,000 sq. ft. trophy mansion on the outskirts of town. Yet, regardless, the composition still stands.
I sit in the easy chair and look. Just look. My mouth opens gently, as if seeking a kiss, then begins to describe the curvature of the fingers, only i am not speaking, merely my lips rounding on the mute words, a blind phonetician trying to communicate to an arrogant perfomance that won't stir to look an admirer in the mouth. Sitting in the green room waiting for the accolades. (accolada--to embrace around the neck.)
A confusing tumble of clutter, will you find a home? I clench my teeth, making the face of a monster, yes a confirmation, a declaration, and simultaneously a wave of a torch. Terror.
One day, it will snow again, but this will be new snow, a new name for it, a baby comforted in a cradle. Who is up, who is down? Last winter, it was snowing, it was cold, and you found need for a coat and a scarf. This summer, i discard the winter's comforts.
Let me name a song, please sing it aloud and i will stamp out the time with my heel. But i forget all the titles, my eyes wide with disbelief, walking down the street. Waiting for the tune to sing, the perfect time. A disguise. Hiding behind the words. The curvatures. One, two, three, four: One, subtle, central axis, pointing; two, top, lifting, sunlit; three, secondary, repeating, changing; four, only a hint, is it really there? This question disappears into five, since it demonstrates it. Curvature, stratovarius, tender slide across the tension, the joy in the hollowed out spaces, the suggestions only. This is me playing along the curvatures, here, on these words. Can you hear the tune coming through? On what kind of soundwaves will this strange music reach ears?
Stratovarius. The sunlight editing and re-editing the room. Throwing up words, trying to keep up, trying to keep in time as the shadows move.