XXIX.

It’s been a while since she last saw the
uni-verse. Stuck within a well-drained
page, poetical fear at the bottom of the
disconnected murakamian well. There,

the once-adored goddess of Cat-dom,
Egyptian and Greek, once known as
Artemis’s wishful thinking, Cicciotta
has retreated to a very small space in

XXX.

the tower that was once of John C, of
computer bits, odds and trends, and
dark terminal screens where typos
are the sole philosophical solutions

to existential problems. Decimated
narratives, hard-up characters, boxed
up resolves. She’s been working on an
oblivian contraption which may or may

XXXI.

not work. A beautiful arabesque design,
self-scribbling which revolves and sucks
the seconds up, draining the ticking of
time. Slowly, her art reverses the pace

of existence, headed backwards toward
the golden age that once never existed,
when Sappho sang, when Ahura Mazda
was much loved through out the East.

XXXII.

We live in time, but sometimes our minds
stop, or our feelings ache, or our soul is
out of sync, and we drift toward non-exi
stent monuments, or we look back with

nostalgia to the epic, the forgotten, the better
never-known side-stories, and we dare to
imagine how would it all have been, when
this building, this rose, this uneven song

XXXIII.

was not so shaded and torn, but resplendent
and true. All the architecture of poetry and
pictorial art, all the polyphonic madrigals
and the broken tambourines – all driven to

the chained sea, all lamenting the chug-chug
of tormented green fuses.