“As if the sky were beneath the cyclist’s feet and the laws of gravity had fallen asleep,” one says.

The walls drip with angels and heavenly garlands, the columns twist and moan; rigid matter takes on the vitality of flesh, first becoming gilded, and then liquefying in intricate spasms.

Stitching innumerable series of electric pylons and half-built/half-demolished high-rises, for the eye yearns to see

Tails, claws, racing limbs, wagging fingers—pulsing, flickering, slow revolution, spinning, cutting, differential speeds. Fingerprints float past, unfathomable maps of a sensual cosmos out of reach, suffocating

The currents of the wind in the grass, patterns of migration, lines of commerce, signals broadcast from distant towers, the sounds of the insects and the light of the stars, converging on a body in unforeseen and uncontrollable ways.

The terror of night—time of mind’s descent into flesh and re-entry into life, that false light of amnesia—suddenly appears as a blow to the head, a razor’s line.

What are the tremulous repercussions of the one who ingests/internalizes the enemy (feeding upon the wound)?

the contrast of the normalized body (in states of composure, pronunciation, and exhibition) and the deviant body (in states of gagging, writhing, and forbidden articulation).

In what sense is innocence obsolesced by more vicious principles of necessity, velocity, and struggle?

How does the pain of mutedness and incommunicability become its own expressive device?