Shaping and reshaping, the X’s eternal past-time.
Ariadne’s primordial vision is overcast, pathological
fantasies replace reality by fiction. “Sappho! I leave
you, yet I do not wish to do so.” From the X, the echo:
“If you have no memory, then I’ ll remind you of
the good times that we had. Crowns of pansies,
and roses, and crocus. We did wear them as one.
Castanets drove us away, snakes in dark woods.”
“The spectre showed its ordinary caprice, it showed
no sign of being.” Ariadne lets out a sigh. Her sinister
feelings are mounting in rapid succession, the waves
interpreted by data scientists, their latest beta version.
“To unearth buried fragments of psychic life we have
to drain the miasmal swamp. The relentlessness and
skepticism with which a Buddha swept aside his two
million gods leads us to pristine experience, truth.”
Magic and drama are one projection of the archaic
mind, rogue rubidium atoms lead us into temptation.
Gut microbiomes of ancestors impact the immunity
and the epigenetics of us pups. Ariadne is curiosity
streamed, and her superconducting doubts are
powerful persnickety drivers of her own insanity.
Love’s a bad dish, ’tis hard to infiltrate once behind
enemy lines. Overparticular anger, lonely distress.