From the snarling, rippling steam crawling directionless away from the tense surface of glowing aquatic fluid rose the all-too-specious outline of a mad scientist, de facto disc jockey of sinking faces. No words—only tragedy—flowed like distracted calculus from between clenched teeth nestled in his cavernous mouth, his gums inlaid with prosaic diagrams splitting Mind. How inexplicably those speckled symbols seemed to reminisce on expired visions whose residue still lingered in his dark eyes, evading yet meeting perfectly with something. Surely it couldn’t have been…that? The collectivity of his personas—conveying an essence positively emerald green (more like sewer grime than verdant, teeming forest)—danced and billowed so extravagantly that the water about him began to quake with elation. The liquefied mass squirmed and shrank and screamed beneath his gaze, becoming his servile centripetal discs. Goblin molecules: how afraid they truly felt.
And then a schism formed like violet love separating his sentient shadows from mine, which, until this very moment, had been entangled like branches and dusk. I poured the contents of the vile so carefully, with a gravely watchful eye, into the vacuum that compensated for the encompassing heresy. Drop by trickle, pin and bone, sacral globs conglomerated into a steely paste before becoming…what? And just like that, the spark ignited and became the fading ash beside it that wouldn’t dare to speak or express its nefarious intent. All was swallowed by the grimacing scientist whose dance at this moment was purely fate concealed as treachery. His friends were aware of this fact—were aware of his mirrored vibrations and subtle masturbations—but what it all meant evaded their grasp.
Beneath the tumbling silence that had fallen victim to its own trap like God still does, little peculiar elves began playing shuffleboard maniacally while manacled. Between their tongues flitting against one another, in suspension, were miniscule selenite castles: tiny shelters for crumbling paupers. The harmonious sky began, as one might expect, to roar with incessant laughter. Becoming themselves, the clouds felt more than ever like piney silk, while, puffed up and silly as ever, juniper trees replaced the hearts of every King and despot reclined on the sloping terraces below. Wolves tumbled into each discreet valley, their claws tearing up the meek red dirt, tails spinning like bashful propellers belligerent and holy. Just what was happening here on Galactic Island? –Surely the most serious event to occur in the time of stacked centuries! But where were the peering neighbors? Their eyes had become paper dolls looping frivolously around a lone, spinning atom, forgiving its own inexorable clumsiness.
I am the disc jockey.
“Bloody feet create heavier footsteps than shadows,” the dancing devil proclaimed when questioned by Aunty Matter, who, seemingly in a trance state, was scraping her toes with sandpaper. “The children contaminate my globes and desserts with stony gazes. Leave me to my equations.” From his side he wrenched a pattern and a few tears, to which each one would be assigned a lover.
“Grant us our liberty!” cried a distant invader. “This is surely blasphemy! Here we are piled and peeled like potatoes. For years my sons and daughters have been dreaming of oceans. Let them see their own faces spread out upon the galaxy, or else my people will see to your dissolution.” Behind the voice one could feel his army, whose scales and shields were oozing pitch and drab.
Into pools it collected, the hoary whispers and clicking, grinding—six pools exactly—trembling to converge and break down into perfect fluid union. All the soldiers’ shoulders and knees buckled and writhed beneath the weight of the very moment grasping for their Infinity. Their little flustered pupils plunged into a place of acerbic rubble, and then began to scrabble around defiantly for an indefinite piece of mind; exchanging their malice and purported dreams for the real things, they felt that they had landed upon something very soft.
Aaaaaah. Galactic Island contracted and dispersed its tentacles, tautening the sinews and fibers of its vessels before they melted gushily like wax into unfurled maps, and then hardened up again defiantly. Mercurial strata wiggled, by their own will and to each other’s dismay, and clung lifelike to the perimeters of…what? Mm….Mathematics! I can finally breathe. Smiling with the velvet fuchsia sky, the scientist forgot his inhumanity and trembled, trembled. His potions had spilled over with the mercury and had developed lives, had suddenly awakened with the dawn.
“Who is that, yelling like a banshee?” cried out Aunty Matter. She momentarily, with a languid and nearly crackling aroma, looked up from her pairing needles that she uses most days. What does she use on the other days? Around her ankles she strapped a lengthwise cat, which for nearly centuries had been purring provocatively. Finally it began to whine, so she let it see her breath. “Oh, it’s my boom box!” Grotesquely, her whimsical digits became majestic groove-beats. The cat purred fabulously.
And then a schism formed like violet love separating his sentient shadows from mine, which, until this very moment, had been entangled like branches and dusk. I poured the contents of the vile so carefully, with a gravely watchful eye, into the vacuum that compensated for the encompassing heresy. Drop by trickle, pin and bone, sacral globs conglomerated into a steely paste before becoming…what? And just like that, the spark ignited and became the fading ash beside it that wouldn’t dare to speak or express its nefarious intent. All was swallowed by the grimacing scientist whose dance at this moment was purely fate concealed as treachery. His friends were aware of this fact—were aware of his mirrored vibrations and subtle masturbations—but what it all meant evaded their grasp.
Beneath the tumbling silence that had fallen victim to its own trap like God still does, little peculiar elves began playing shuffleboard maniacally while manacled. Between their tongues flitting against one another, in suspension, were miniscule selenite castles: tiny shelters for crumbling paupers. The harmonious sky began, as one might expect, to roar with incessant laughter. Becoming themselves, the clouds felt more than ever like piney silk, while, puffed up and silly as ever, juniper trees replaced the hearts of every King and despot reclined on the sloping terraces below. Wolves tumbled into each discreet valley, their claws tearing up the meek red dirt, tails spinning like bashful propellers belligerent and holy. Just what was happening here on Galactic Island? –Surely the most serious event to occur in the time of stacked centuries! But where were the peering neighbors? Their eyes had become paper dolls looping frivolously around a lone, spinning atom, forgiving its own inexorable clumsiness.
I am the disc jockey.
“Bloody feet create heavier footsteps than shadows,” the dancing devil proclaimed when questioned by Aunty Matter, who, seemingly in a trance state, was scraping her toes with sandpaper. “The children contaminate my globes and desserts with stony gazes. Leave me to my equations.” From his side he wrenched a pattern and a few tears, to which each one would be assigned a lover.
“Grant us our liberty!” cried a distant invader. “This is surely blasphemy! Here we are piled and peeled like potatoes. For years my sons and daughters have been dreaming of oceans. Let them see their own faces spread out upon the galaxy, or else my people will see to your dissolution.” Behind the voice one could feel his army, whose scales and shields were oozing pitch and drab.
Into pools it collected, the hoary whispers and clicking, grinding—six pools exactly—trembling to converge and break down into perfect fluid union. All the soldiers’ shoulders and knees buckled and writhed beneath the weight of the very moment grasping for their Infinity. Their little flustered pupils plunged into a place of acerbic rubble, and then began to scrabble around defiantly for an indefinite piece of mind; exchanging their malice and purported dreams for the real things, they felt that they had landed upon something very soft.
Aaaaaah. Galactic Island contracted and dispersed its tentacles, tautening the sinews and fibers of its vessels before they melted gushily like wax into unfurled maps, and then hardened up again defiantly. Mercurial strata wiggled, by their own will and to each other’s dismay, and clung lifelike to the perimeters of…what? Mm….Mathematics! I can finally breathe. Smiling with the velvet fuchsia sky, the scientist forgot his inhumanity and trembled, trembled. His potions had spilled over with the mercury and had developed lives, had suddenly awakened with the dawn.
“Who is that, yelling like a banshee?” cried out Aunty Matter. She momentarily, with a languid and nearly crackling aroma, looked up from her pairing needles that she uses most days. What does she use on the other days? Around her ankles she strapped a lengthwise cat, which for nearly centuries had been purring provocatively. Finally it began to whine, so she let it see her breath. “Oh, it’s my boom box!” Grotesquely, her whimsical digits became majestic groove-beats. The cat purred fabulously.