measured from a lattice point, a sight becomes a sound.

there is a mystery i have been investigating and it is a secret, i am not telling anyone the abouts, not writing down the observations, and there is no evidence, only insinuances, something about half-lives, like radioactivity, deadly chemistry that is vitalic while it is harmful, carbon-12 getting tired and stale and yellow, bones in cushions, taking little sleeps, more and more often, skirting the mysteries for a moment of peacefulness, and blank of remembrances,

and when i investigate blank remembrances, there is that film of dust, like set upon a table of decades, missing the chair where kids would sit and contemplate their fingernails, but only when they were told to.

do you know how plastic gets brittle after nineteen years?

so do senses. because they become less vocalic.

like, if you retrieved your water pistol from 1986, and you went to the tap, and you filled it up with water, not too hot and not too cold, but just above lukewarm, and you inserted the little plunger, then you turned to face your enemies and you fired, then the water pistol would form shards, in the compression between the padding of your palm and your pointer finger pulling the trigger, would simply shatter and fall to pieces,

after years of service and friendship, your water pistol has let you down, left you exposed, left you undefended, now feeling the great surge of water at your ribcage, no match for the supersoaker of the new millenium, you are inhaling without breathing, collapsing backwards against the kitchen counter, toes sliding forwards into the little broken plastic pieces of what used to be your most trusted childhood weapon, little plastic shards spinning in place on the ceramic tiles.

plus, you are wearing a white shirt, so everyone can see your nips. that's the way it goes.

what were we about?