Dear Gills of Light,

Dear Gills of Light,

Something Celestial has happened. I took a bite out of Edward Hopper's ribs and swallowed shadows and luminance of color (1931 Color Space). I stood there, gloaming like a political pickle. I watched my fingers fold inward towards my wrinkled palms, fingertips slowly touching the palms (the equivalence of a dog changing pace on command), caressing and rubbing, like a Capuchin Monkey. Your shadows and chromaticity move me like Wang Xizhi's wrist, rearing geese. I smeared the what was left over the clean flesh of my palms, leaving streaks, dark (deep) red (showing my fruity side) and then a pink-discolorization at the tail of each smear—the reduction of color—undesired, yet debilitatingly-uncontrollable like Kali's energy.

The feeling of almost being touched (deserting breath). The skin crawling before the final motion, like bullets exploding before hitting their targets. It will always be the outer-dimension that runs bare through the silence like a small amphibian—spine-bearing—the development of whatever immense thickness can be discovered. Who are you and aren't you fossilferous?—making contact with suitable unknowns, inhibited like bacterial ribosomes. I see thru you but I don't, like looking thru dirty obsidian. At what point do you blur before I blink? The hook, you enter it rapidly and I dangle off of your unfunctional hoofs like dewlap.

Your exigencies are seen as admirable—no dangerous errors, no mistrust of accumulation—keeping my vanishable appearings and re-appearings amidst the stricture. I won't linger amongst the groupuscules. I have become a human Trichoptera, hatched Homeomorphismically by the physical interaction of light—yet my diametrical shadows won't be withheld any longer. You must keep embracing me as if I were a re-acquaintance. I will forever be your consistent burgeoning.


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