The days fly into the blue and disappear, and your mind, in its memory-making, contains the disappeared days as film archive. I want to set fire to the archive. Burn all the films. Watch the celluloid twist and incinerate. I want to escape the past that does not exist. I want to escape the past that is inescapable because there is no past, the very idea of the past is what keeps you from escaping, hence the inescapability.
She bangs on tender hollows, taps on the vibrating flesh, the trembling corpuscles. Taps and knocks and a rhythm amasses in and out of thin air. Thin blue air. She specializes in thin blue air, as all high priestesses do.
She saw her many. In pieces. Each vying for autonomy, each aspiring toward unification. Her eyes beheld broken spires, roads logjammed with broken spires, the look of what-happened-here. A slideshow of awe and terror. To witness violence and wonder is to see the birds falling from the sky, hailing upon the earth dead on arrival. Their wings like torn paper prayers, like questions unanswered. Their mysterious deaths lead us to the strange wingless angels, the blue ones.
We have become bereft of true language.