Then, sometimes, you only leave the backround in focus. Just to try and concentrate on the things you never really look at.
You tell people you're 21. A complex of unities that are complexes of even smaller unities, and so on. Is that everything you've lived? A list of days and dates, rolled and archived as "1997"? What if your age was built up by the times you've smiled, by the times you've felt your heart cracking and a crackle on somebody's lips? Where's the pulsion-measurer, when you look outside the window and you feel your head filling up with as much snow as the one filling up the valley? When you try to catch Orion on your film? Where are all of your years, then?
She sits on a wall and looks at the children sliding down the road. She can feel her own arse and bones slowly freezing, she breathes in sharp and delicious air. She closes her right eye, leaving a world in half-focus to her mind. The backside of the black boots gently hit the wall, but the sound's nothing more than a ticking, a rythm for insects. She's still waiting, exhaling white vapour from violet lips. But her attention is stuck on what's in front of her, and on what's upon. She loves the dark silouhettes of the trees angainst a burned-out sky. She hears a rustle behind her back, but before she can turn around everything's quiet and silent again. She looks forwards and opens the right eye, catching the glimpse of something laying on the side of the road. Something that wasn't there before.
Small, smaller, smallest. All the details slide on the surface of something perfect, and stop. You're baking the bricks of your own mind, trying not to make them stick to your fingers. Smile alright, put the dirty cd in the player and let it start. Automatically, time is not of your concern anymore. Take a deep breath, and look at the perfection of that frown. The delight of the perplex expression on his face, the way we all lift our eyes towards the sky and shake our heads when some absurdity floats through the air, in the vicinity of our ears. Aint we beautiful, judging silently and chewing wisdom behind closed lips? Night-and-day creatures in a restless search for that infinity we never could get to imagine anyways. And than we explode. Whoom. The minuscule pieces of ourselves fall down again, just like flour. They land on the surface of that something perfect. Not to stick our fingers to it. Again. Againer. Againest.
