These are transmissions from behind closed eyelids.These are caustic auras waveforming outwards and into infinite dimensions that I can only view as undefinable geometry.
This is art only time can create by applying temporal pressure. It kneads flashing fractals into my retinas. It speaks a headaching language.
My muse aligns herself with the white lines on the tennis court. She gives the night her full weight, sprawling out against the concrete.I join her.She used to chase the tearjerk, she whispers.When flattened squirrels in gutters and inevitable circumstances wouldn't call tears forth, she would rub her eyes until the pressure brought them running.Then, my muse looks at me and cries.Foxes cackled in distant echoes.Black eyeliner spilled out from behind her squint-shut eyelids.Wind combed through chainlinks and evergreens.Time fractured into flashes of memory.These are messages translated from private, synaptic conversation; electric pulses between many and within one.
there will be time for this later
These are signals that become clear only as time allows.