My Projects
Under (re)construction after the last diskquake.
we each sit in individual tea cups, and the cups on plates, and the
plates on different conveyor belts of segmented time-substance; the
belts go in various directions and move at high, yet different, speeds.
for some the inside of the cup is plushy, like jeannie's bottle. for
others the cup is filled with piranhas.
sometimes we can control the direction and speed of our cups enough so
that we line up for a moment, just one moment at a time, in which we can
throw a word or two to each other over high winds. we vomit the words
into our hands, and they're hard, spiky cubes that draw blood, rubbery
balls with moth-dust ginger inside, or ethereal tissue-like leaves that
never quite reach but float away and perhaps land on someone else's
nose.
for some people, their interlocutor is god, throwing a "if they would be
willing to die for the world's sins" kind of brick.
but that's rare.
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