Non-sense prose

Alpine crag; wet cheek; elegant death; Anthocharis cardamines;;

 

My instantiation's eye turns downward to shield itself from the sun's colossal glare, but a moment later it finds shelter in a building's shadow and it (inst.) reflects on the childishness of its (eye) reflexive evasion. In the violet shade, the eye latches onto a series of movements. First, from its downward line of sight, it finds the stuttering step of a pigeon; then at eye level proper, a sparrow or such (myopia makes certainty difficult), a quick dive and a quicker lift and off into the row of poplars. Then, it ventures upward, where first appears a seagull's floating fall and finally, an aeroplane's mechanical slash across the sky wide-open. The instantiation ends; another then begins, of the same vital current, but a consciousness of its own.

 

This new instantiation is defined by an erupting phantasm, no doubt provoked by this sky (wide-open), in the blink before the violet shade was slashed and the plane (the one the former inst. was tracking) crashed into the sun, and the sun's colossal glare possessed the eye once more. This phantasm is of no concern to us (me, you, persons of objectivity), but I suspect you wish to be indulged, and so I will oblige: the instantiation experienced (éprouvé, not senti) itself as a collection of experiences, and experienced (senti this time) utter shame, that it had ever (in previous instantiations) desired to become another's experience. This however was the phantasm in question: following this experience (sentiment), it invariably saw itself in the other's experience, cycling through an array of images. A warm wind, and itself awkwardly posted up on a bench (though it did not know of the common design of benches in so faraway a fantastic land, and so it became uneasy with the incoherence of the phantasm). Then, a gossamer blue it thinks the other might be interested in, but then what? The moronic languidity of the scene suddenly evokes a choking burst of laughter, from which emerges a sort of synthesis: experiencing the experience of the other, is what it wishes for, and it finds a great satisfaction in this conclusion, for it confirms the elegance of its phantasmagorical indulgences.

 

This instantiation did not end as quickly, but it did enter a new phase, which, suddenly frustrated with the inertia of its previous conclusion (re: relations, spectres of affection), longs to stay alive through dialogue and dance. It does not excel in either of these fields, and while the mind drifts toward an organic (shy, distant, the gaze turns itself away) tryst, the eye latches onto the phantasm of a ballgown, a vision infuriating to the mind. No opulence, no falsities, no filler. "I know (rest) only what I know", it speaks, "I know," it trails, "A step, a box," it trails (rest) again (emphase). A silent waltz then, a weightless waltz, off a rugged cliff, cheek-to-cheek, powder streaked with tears, and karner blues parade us (laugh). It crystallizes in a field of glassy ice, curiously home to swarms of Eastern katydids, and quite exotic a scene. You (an indefinite you, experienced as your distant image more than your vital current) bleed, and are feverishly ill in a way that is of no burden, only which makes a great collection of my images see itselves touch your nape. An insect briefly lands on your brow and it startles the both of us and the whole of them, and then the phantasm breaks, and it is spring.