[eggplantface] invertingmomentum
the tender distant urgings of an automated construction unit beat in rythmn with her sleep.
curled upon a couch beside an elegant french cut window, a generous view facing the heart of the stirring beast of population density. the air in the bedroom having thinned out in the hours since dawn, smoke making its way into the hallway and soaking its musk into the wardrobe and its contents, the hardwood floors tightening beneath the oppressive weight of people and furniture, the cold invasion of morning temperatures spiking hairs like needles and forcing sore and tired red noses into the soft warm hiding of faces burried in pillows and limbs wrapped beneath blankets.
thick cumulus draped over the entire canvas of the waking earth, smothering the brick and concrete in a drunken coma of unwakable abandon, the stripped and unprotected object of construction standing open and bare to the urgent chill of grey dawn, girders and rivets huddling with quiet and warping stacks of wooden planks and soaking bags of dry mix.
her face felt like glass. cold to the touch, once blown hot and glowing red and wet, with time left outside where mornings like this one had followed one another far too often, and she was growing brittle and sad, the danger of chipping, or worse, a teary-eyed daydream which hovered over her like a pitiful angel of observation, solemn and tortured by insomnia.
the next few hours were marked only by the repeated warning sirens of inhuman servitude, alerting similar preprogrammed companions of early morning pergutory to their own spatial proximity, course and acceleration. streets empty save the silent unorganized parade of hollow-eyed automatons with faces stretched by the excessive endurance of halogen and flesh bereft of pigment, bruised black-blue veins running sludge from one receptor to another, intravenous doses of unleaded-decaffeinated mechanically supporting the memory of muscles, the orientation of sensory input, the obsessive pattern of motor function, all struggling against the waves of insanity being heavily restrained by the regular ingestion of prescription psychoactives, by the observance of the subtle variations in the fonts of administered advertisement, by the hours spent swallowing oxygen bubbles in a fish tank with central air conditioning.
a quick and hasty march in the few short hours of a sessile gathering of sleeping self-actualized prototypes. monitired by an electric fusion line of defense, striped blue and armed like savages, enforcing strict adherance to the preservation of reality for those designated as emblems of culture.
she sat up and watched them scurry back to their holes. a blue empathy for the hidden lepers of the subterranean day. she lit a cigarette and was thankful that the sun would not come out today, letting her ash collect on an ornamented plate left as a gift by her mother, weighted down now by a purple black candle in the shape of a mushroom, with drips crusted and splattered about the face and on the table. “when you light it, it glows from the inside,” whispered almost inaudibly low and slow by a cute young boy in the apartment one night, sparks flying from his eyes where his brain could no longer contain the infusion of light brought on by the tongue rested dissolve of too many tabs. she said it out loud to herself. “when you light it, it glows from the inside.........” something she had to be told to notice. she drew pictures in the air with the paint splashing from her fingertips and decided to go back to sleep.

[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[[chris]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]]
[scenery makes me want to stop breathing]