I want to be hip. I want to be cool. A whisper she can't stop, drawing circles in her head, round and around in the place she is in. Sitting in a vast plain, no real horizon, no need for motion, transfinitude and such, since that which is in front is that which is behind and on the sides too, as if a mirror were there, everywhere, and that the seeing and the seen. Thus, a dead duck feeling.
Up and forward, spin on a heel, a turn around oneself to get started, as it were. See if it is as it seems. Eyelids down —— and then.
And then, an open door and it on the table, she said. Big Bang the letters on it as, say, in other places, Keep Of The Grass, Do Not Touch The Tulips, No Loitering Here, No Hit Men Allowed, Pass Through Customs This Way, Attention! Silence Please, or say, the sign which says Homemade Strawberry Jam. Put in a jar as something special. But what if no strawberries ever and at all and hence no jam and the letters a label?
And heat next, a sense, as when another is there, present in the room.
Time, please?
It happened then —— prophecy and intuition came in with the furniture, dragging it around squeaking, screeching. Then gratings, thuds, something rolls on the floor. Light hammerings behind walls.
