a tired bloom

Balanced on the periphery of a funnel, a miniature ballerina was stationed to fulfill a contract she had signed from the beginning of her voyage, a contract which had explicated that, in order to escape en route unscathed, she was to mystify an anxious, navel-gazing crowd, so they could rise and follow by nose a trail of steamy notes and tones destined for obscurity. Her weapon of choice was a prescribed melody she could only remember when she closed her eyes to block out the world around her. Lurid, animalculous configurations embodied an assortment of saints she had chanced upon throughout the course of her 25 years. These iconoclastic figures, who taught her blind how to perform tricks, also generously equipped her with miscellaneous wonders akin to those held by a professional gymnast. As a strategy to elude the puppeteers that had severed her strings and dumped her in this place, she disguised herself to fit the mold of a rambunctious harlot, ensuring any potential access to the n

Kings and queens of digital debris are the predators of the new economy. Consider the resemblance to prestige: hoarding. Behind an impeccable exterior lurks a table of contents mottled by frayed contradictions, hidden porcelain inside of a fabricated scaffolding. Unfixed pedagogical relations, snared vertiginous, were twisted within a centerpiece resembling a wrench, not stylistic enough to evade crystallization by touch, gentle enough to be inviting. One aim: to metamorphose, into active agents of codification. A generated voice crackled from an intercom. ‘Vanity is what keeps you mortal.’ it said. ‘To extract from the practical, an ability to criticize abstract filtration.’ Static wind sparked zippy electrical pockets. Lined porcupine between signal and transmission, opposing wide-angle cylinders, identical twins sat waiting for the cue against one another. ‘Soon it will be complete.’ the intercom buzzed, gargling out of key and settling to an excruciating radio silence.