take the string and put the ends together and walk across the scone ends of your life. a wrinkle in time, a pause in the day for tea, an unspoken forgotten dimension of your world climbing out of your head like a continuously rising house extension, enabling you to see the view that everything immediately around you tends to obstruct. and out of this nameless height of vision a child, the lost impression of your formative past, drops twisted bed sheets to yourself. and you climb, and you climb, hoping to reach that trap door in the sky, but you grow tired soon and let yourself fall, hard, against the concrete establishment of your waking days, your coffee sodden money time, the prison of your escaping self. falling into the ringing silence of underwater subversion, the siren spectacles of tv. like houdini, you dislocate your limbs, and come out at the weekends dripping, turning wine into water, brimming with the illusion of freedom, inscribing the empty form of death with words, with the spiraling fall of tree leaves, apparel of light cut off at the stem, the shrouding cut of the tongue. fragments of yourself, crumbs, crumbling onto the tablecloth, the bleakness of your future spread out naked, white, and gleaming before you like a desperate lover crying take me, take me now, but when you reach out your tentacles like a starving anonymous anemone you find that there is nothing, nothing but the concentric circles of the masquerade, the pantomime of your past dancing silently before you like a ghost, detached, cold, beyond touch. don’t tesseract this moment, don’t try to connect me to your dying. let me fall, softly dreaming of the light, the slow liquid pulse of the parasite. . .