Storystyling : Unsmoked Books (1 / 7)

Silver Splash

Woke up on an overcast afternoon. Thought it was an early morning. Late fall or the onset of winter. Couldn’t tell.

Melting the mucous lace that makes the eyelids heavy, started reading the cloud’s smile.

-- Hey yo, little one, howsbout : behave, ha!

-- Wow to you who need to be constantly reminded what its names is, ha!

The cloud smiles. Casts an invisible shadow over the invisible dazzling glow.

An overcast day is but a mimicry of the sunshowered orangepurple trajectory.

Dapoltri.

/

--Do thou likes it?

--No, me no likes it.

--Me no likes it, too.

   Verily.

A day whose span can be compared to a stretch of wings encompassing the whole globe would be thought to occur during the period of a fervent struggle between spring and summer for the sovereign position of power. It may be so. And yet, such a trajectory would not only entail severe deprivation of darkness, but also warmth of some sort. When it sometimes does so, it is but a mimicry of a heavily overcast afternoon amidst a battlefield featuring fall and winter in the roles of respective potential rulers. And yet, rivals…pretenders…wannabe powers are but a source of indefatigable abhorring.

As darkness submerges the cityscape in a rainy smell of disaffection, a work week’s infectious kiss plagues the days off.

/

Neither on nor off is the time when seasons dissolve in evaporations from sunlit walls puking the buds blossoming from the crevices in dried paint.

When snow cries the rain, and ice scorches drought is not when to start with.

Galactic maps sprayed with dispersing nanoparticles splashing the clouds, wrapping their shadows.

Filigree veil spiked with a mild golden touch.

Solvent to its own insubstantiality. Curvy mist padding intergalactic remapping.

Sunshowered.

/

Blindingly insipid corona envelopes clothes displayed in a shop window. In a crudely refurbished area of the city, years bygone when poverty ruled are fading nostalgia of the frowners at simulated upscaleness. Yarns find no knots there, threads limply entangled. Travesty of fiber. Disgustingly vapid.

Glass barrier between an echo of a gleam and its shop window virtual version.

(Solvent to its own insubstantiality.)

Those whose eyes find the focus in the titillations of the dimlitness displayed find the clothes, in fact, to be but the cloth made from the finest of fabric paving the surface of the dining table domineering the candlelit chamber in the stately castle. And yet, the fascinating surface turns out to be merely a huge display — a mirror of sorts – featuring   a variety of human facial physiognomies. Expressionless to the point of turning out to be clothes in a blindingly insipid shop window. Dimlit to the core, epitomizing dispersal of digital sparks flirting with unmovable facial muscles, unshakable eyes. Immune to distractions, firmly anchored in the splashes emanating from where -- were a meal served -- plates would be found.

static melting into sinuous tapestry spreading across the pathways of intergalactic remapping.

mafotherphunkiephunk.