is missing in the suburbs; flashes of brilliance and twitches in the fabric of being that call out from within the depths those impressions that otherwise are lost to you, sublimated, transfigured, misapprehended.
Fleeting moments are the matter from which the phenomenological universe is made, as well as the recollectable universe, and thus the narrative universe, as well as the spatiotemporal universe. It’s all glimmers and moonshine and fancies and misdirection.
A car stops outside your window; two bars of an ephemeral chorus and a couple of disconnected words; they will stay with your subconscious self forever, will inform your being in some small way on the day that you die. The subway rolls past this time, headed for the shop; it is another data mark, another tick in the tally of universal maintenance. Here is a breeze, it carries with it the scent of something long forgotten. Ocean? Weeping willow branches? Fertile soil? The molecules come from afar and trigger electropulses of conscience and desire that don’t reach the level of awareness, but instead color your smile and your gestures for the next three days, the haunting of your childhood carried through everyone you interact with into the lives of everyone they interact with.
Chaos, chaos, chaos,
the sunset on tropical beaches always a sign for the wisdom you’re not sure you’ve got but that you exercise anyway as a matter of coincidence, accident, and happenstance.
All is wisdom.
All is the reckless, nostalgic flavor of the sweet nothings of your own past whispers, made to no-one in particular, mostly when you didn’t know you were making them.