time takes a hiatus, & now words awkwardly produce small talk with one another in the cafe ino's blueprint. the rain outside dresses in sepia and springs itself through my window, stripping its coy and asking for conversation over convenient store wine and music of singing and unsinging, the spattering frictions like michaux's skeletal ballerinas {or maybe it's prehistoric warfare or the rorschach of lunacy untethered or the traces of talons or the vodorosli's prayer or the haunted film strip artifact of a drunken haze memory of a free association or sous ratures dancing across truth or the consequences of being buried alive.}, the forensic lachrymation, the bouquet of whispers materializing into one screech.
beauchêne