Ad nauseum ad nauseum

User:Serprex 01:42, November 27, 2017 (UTC)

Blood for the slaughter, cut red handed. Running on empty, no oxygen, only this viscous death blood, leaking out the face, the hands, always back to the hands, these hands

These hands don't hold anymore. Letting go, adrift, found sunk, exploring post mortem, post life, anew, adieu

Dawn at six. Pink sky, clouds lit, smoke cloud, toxic rain, washing away everything, only sins remain

Porch looks down. Passes by the wayside. Weight on a limb; going out on. Porch's days only begun. Today's some old day, been had before, drained to dry. Perishable time

Gone bad. Where'd it go? Falls back into reverie. To before this day. Snuck a smile, was it only a reflex? It echoes through time. When was it? That first time, thinking back, it was only perceived by reference, looking up from a book, smiled at to the back of the head. Bullet wound's still leaking. That tingling sensation. They come out in waves, it comes in waves, these days, all interfering

Have to time it right. Cancel them out. Move onwards. How many times has this introduction been made? Every new person is déjà vu. Someone older, more worn, out & yet here they are, a new moment, to be filed away, duplicated, revised by everyone else

But it's still there, the carbon copy, back then when. The vultures in the tree, their looming presence, the unrepeatable moment unobserved as it's taken down for later review, where it'll be pretended that it was experienced, but it wasn't, only written down & passed around like a snuff film or some afternoon thrill sight on the job

These details, their fidelity, crisp & rhythmically timed, the pace of the heart at that point, the way it varied by the day, these pieces are to be revisited, other observers discarded these points, but losing those points, it becomes pointless, some blob with new details applied in order to keep the story straight

Private keys flying by a terminal screen. Never unseen. Shifting fingers passing on their code. Sequences constructed to keep the time straight. Monotonic clock stamping out seek points. Where does one moment end & begin? A second later

Dreams are just these records getting mixed up. Imagining how it'd've panned out if some key pieces had been put elsewhere. If the camera had panned over to information then there now lost. Lost in reverie

But now Porch is here, taking this step, the stranger's past, stranger things have passed, when the first word was said, all the lies, these histories are a series of amendments annotating wrong, wrong wrong. Perceptions wrong. Illusions cast from shadows. Glitches in understanding

Just make the next step. The stranger had a brown coat, sun tanned, curls, buckled boots, sidebag, glasses..

Glasses on the table. Hexagons. Round top. Textured glass. Tinted green. Refracts on the windowsill. Memory clear, but it happens, against will. This is determinism. The past is deterministic. The present will soon be the past; deterministic

& this second step, it soon will be the present. Will the sole's slight shifting as the weight pushes it against the cement be perceived? Put on record for all time? Will the cigarette butts be immortalized? Their deflated former selves, once ripe to deflate the lungs of their consumers

Time goes on, leaving Porch behind. Or maybe everyone goes on, leaving time behind, besides Porch, still here, this moment, it hasn't evaporated, left to be forgotten, to be repeated unknowingly

But time did go on, all that has passed, these archives now can be reflected on with footnotes made referencing the future. That's the difference between memory & experience: in the former one relives it knowing what happens next. Drained of all surprise. Vital to remember the uncertainty, the misconceptions, the faux pas

They all lead to laying by this trickling stream, blood flowing away, each painful movement echoing itself into the perception of the next. Foliage masking moonlight. Stream gurgles, as if it were new life, idly flowing on away from this deathful

Next step being taken. One step follows the other. Eventually Porch'll reach the convenience store. See if any of the chips are appetizing

The bag crinkles, & then air pressure has the indent swirling around, an inverse bubble. Catch up to this moment, the anticipation, then the anticipation had to be lived through, it had to pass, even if Porch wanted the moment to go on, to only have to come upon the moment where the bag pops, emptying the trapped air. Now, in reflection, reliving this anticipation is optional

A sharp pain pierces the memory. Interrupts before it can relive the sweet vinegar taste. Acid on the tongue, melting away the surrounding environment, eyes shutting as the experience focuses in on the fake tomato taste, having to decide whether to let the chip melt or crack

Eyes are open. Looking at bloody hands. When was this? Maybe now. It's becomes hard, the linear basis of past memories, mixing with present memories. Everyone bleeds the same, warmth seeping away, this does not change with time

Blood's in my head, blood's on the floor

All I've got is this bad blood to give

Now there's only handfuls of blood

Flood my body deathful, spiteful

Scorpion whiplash, sucking me dry

Scorpions've got my mortality in a vice

Don't cry for this poor sod out of luck

Porch's mind echoes on in chorus. Never ending as it raises up the line, be it hiding in a closet, running down a moonlit path, or laying here by this flowing stream. Some cheap imitation Styx

Two feet off the floor, breathing's getting heavier, heart is starting to race, trying to rush oxygen it doesn't have, the breathing begins to gasp & moan, eyes feeling heavy, hands grasping aimlessly, it could be anything. Anticipation's rising in excitement. Just needed a little kick

No ghosts in these crystal clear etchings. Alive in stasis. Sharp surfaces reflecting future onto present, or is that passed, it's all perfect, regular structure, nothing to change when falling back to that time, each action grows from the last, striking back onto that time vibrates with a perfect tone, each moment's stuck on the same frequency, pitch the sail to traverse these clear waters

No dark depths sheathing sharks, bleed freely, melting into the underbrush, only place to hide is behind reflections

So Porch could see this was going to be fine. Telling present from past, it didn't really matter, just a matter of perspective. The sun would rise again, warmth would bring breath more easily, put things into perspective, it's not so bad. Some croaking moan would catch the attention of a stranger wearing black jacket wearing blue tipped lapel. There there

How long have you been here? / Always / Are you feeling okay? / I can't feel my legs / Can you move your toes? / I can't feel my legs / Everything's going to be alright / It's cold down here / How'd you end up down here? / I'm sinking back / What are you thinking about? / Sinking / About?

Into the depths, a blinding light, "What do you see?"

It's a narrow road, not so much because of it's actual proportion, but because of the trees along the street, closing in, hiding away the powerlines, the drawstrings of this period, packing everyone together, no matter how far. It's that odd time of season where leaves are collecting in the streets as debris, yet there's still so many on the trees. Cars are parked along the street, making it seem more narrow, everything's being tightened together, an elder child's standing by, this moment is suspended, suspended by the waiting. Most moment flicker by, no time for exposure to burn into the mind, a keepsake, a notch in the timeline. Reaching for something to pass the time, to move on to the next moment, "Don't step on a crack," it'd be easy enough to walk carefully, but instead it becomes a matter of leaping, of risking failure, seeking distraction, but everything is kept aware, risk does not gather attention from the faux wood paneling on the long nosed vehicle across the street. Stretched out along this narrow road