...he is verifying the whites of his eyes, flattening a head of erratic hair. The floor is wet with a thousand diseased feet and the fume of myriad brands of perspiration cause him to hesitate, murder the mosquitos that had followed him in. Fingers for a comb and the young girl addresses him as he maintains a position of inconclusiveness in that good mirror. Far from a quirk of egoism (and here he apperceives an illustrated man with double chin and glinting teeth), he had perpetually spoken to himself in regarding the quality of mirrors...differences between the ornate household, --and tawdry public washroom varieties...the mirror itself as distinguished from the reflection. And now the young girl quietly succumbs to fear, succumbs as he hears the closing footsteps of a concerned mother...and he appreciates the sound, gravel under pressure, the rubber sole trapping miniature lakeside shells. She had meant well and although he is a reasonably good man, a stalk-eyed insect nevertheless, lacking in the superficiality of overt kindness. In a glance he views a small 'w' upon the strange blue door and he nods as he moves from the facility, acknowledging...gender indication activates internal laughter...he had animately questioned his own sex in that moment, a parody of self, headlining now in some burlesque comedy show. Then a young girl in circular breathing, in stone angels and fiery leaves...and it is only morning. Sibilance overwhelms the wood and soothes him, scintillating through him like the metallic air, like the thought, like his desperation for home and sleep. He is recovering...he is recovering from amateur injections of ethanol and cyanide...plastering heavy stones into a lingering wall of insensitivity. And he imagines the form of a distant city (horizontal stars)...the dying blue of trembling water...his feet are bare, waiting, ascending. In memory and impossibility he is certain...the gravel path...he is certain...and it is only morning.
*"incomplete sunsets" (vintage schooner file rarity), an angular hunk of blue cheese aged thirteen years ***TODAY. 'view more' in profile and travel southward to locate song (...created while squatting nude over toy amplifiers, a plexus of dollar store microphones and four ancient tapedecks (trundling to capture overlay and creating, in turn, a god-like sibilance which I have only recently moderated to near ear-worthiness. To subdue the glassy sound quality produced by tawdry recording equipment I was forced to edify a makeshift tent of bedsheets and stolen rakes). Indebtedness extends to the reliability of audiocassette casings and of course the immutability of electromagnetic shavings.
