you see a fracture as a careless thing 'til you get to know it. slip planes and burgers vectors and neat rows of atoms sliding past each other. diffusion too, the politeness of molecules waiting their turn to move into an open spot, or tiny particles weaving through the gaps in a large crowd. something breaking is so complicated and yet so simple. ductility becomes your greatest annoyance, the more things bend before they break, the more stubbornly they cause issues. everything decomposes, everything entropies. it just depends on your tensile strength, the wetness in your eyes as you see a light that's so much bigger than you, something you can't possibly stand. how does an hydrogen atom feel when it moves across the boundary layer and escapes from a tank that was holding it? does it even recognize that it was held in the first place? they can't possibly understand it; all they see is an opening, and they move forward. and then something breaks.

fingers slide clumsily, catching the edges and sticking slightly to the hole in my side. it gapes wide and stoic, staring at something just out of my peripheral. i knew that playing with swords was dangerous, but the metal felt so good between my fingers i couldn't stop myself. when you look back, everything looks brighter, sweeter. he didn't just look it, he was. is, maybe. the wound thumps. a hollow, nauseous sound, out of time with the rhythm of my blood. it stubbornly refuses to bleed. even on the other side, it won't start the process of explusion, of retching out the poison (the blood) (the sweetness) (the sun), of knotting itself back together in a sloppy mess of nerves and slough. and so it throbs, winking cheekily out at the something that it lives for.

he tastes like earthsalt and old smoke. potentials swirl under the flat of my tongue, collecting in his shallows, eclipsing one another and folding back onto themselves. turbulence is the secret to our universe, and we will never understand it. statistics can always point out its shadow, but the true bluedeep beauty of its motions is goverened by whatever governs us in turn. who's to say fluid elements don't have feelings themselves? maybe they migrate like salmon, maybe they're out on a mission to change their flat tire, maybe they're searching for an old lover. maybe, in another second in the 4th dimension, our world dictates the turbulence; all of us, pushing fluid elements, like neurons kissing and dancing in the golden hour. his turbulence tastes sweet, wispy... but earthy. a natural sugar. the world serves up delicious banquets to those who seek them.

baited breath. the universe breathes for you. the sun steps gently walking by. .. ... . blood thrums too loud. should be still. laminar.


.. there's not much to do.


blinking crashes cymbals . ..



. one day your perfectionism will catch up with you.

you whet your lips, nervously, nerotically. eyes flicking to the clock, worrying at the insides of your mouth with teeth sharpened by your own hand. a bead of sweat runs down the bridge of your nose, a long languid pull off a cigarette and you as the smoke trapped in its lungs. how long have you been waiting? it feels like an eternity. there isn't a window to see, no spot to even grasp a glimpse of your own reflection. how long have you aged? and yet the clock ticks on, marching into the distance as the gunfire of your neurons blooms inside your head, two soldiers in your own fields.