The
eye glued itself to a spoon. It felt as closed
as an
anvil, yet when lightening struck the eye
its
entrails were protected by Faraday's effect.
The
spoon kicking up reflections; the brain rudely
photo
bombing each of these reflections.
The
brain in these violent, intrusive instances looked
like a
car wash sponge in which a small tree was planted.
In the
tree in the sponge a fish hook was hooked,
in the
bark, ingrown, its entry point surrounded by gnarl.
The
tree was meant to be pulled up out of the sponge
by
this hook. A sacrifice.
The
night sky outside the window behind the sponge
was
silver. The stars weren't stars. Arguably the
solar
system's twinkly braces marked a new stage in its
ongoing
identity crisis. In another sense, it was
trying
to disguise its hatred. Which was uncalled-for.
It
need only have kicked us in our beds. An interstellar
tendon
could've merely swiped across the sky like
a
watermelon's peel. Changing the particles we slept on.
Debris
suddenly rectifying themselves. Roadkill stirring
on a
fluctuating crosswalk. Becoming something new
after
spiraling. Multiple jujitsu.
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