Storystyling : sunshowered (2 / 2)

Cake Cuttingmelting

A croquis of a rut scrapes the chocolate icing. Ground almonds, titillating over the foamy topping, mingle as the semirealized sketch turns into a deeper line thrusting into the layer of the wiggling whipped cream.

Walking by the river. Walked that way back then, too. Through the guise of the conspiracy of fog’s  embrace enfolding the scenery as dark green as anything ungraspable by an eye. Gleam hidden behind sepia shadowed sound. Freshness of the air subdued in an air of a crepuscular ruler. Trees like buds. Buds like petals. Dispersed across the chocolate lace. Sparkling.

Smudging the sweet mud, sinuously, yet steadily, the cake cutter asserts its curvy signature. Indulging in the secrecy of the allbuffering zone, diced mixed nuts bathe in the thickness of caramelized fruits.

Sudden spell of emptiness conquers the journey of a thought from the source to wherever it is supposed to find fruition. Sorta. The thought arrested on the spot of the trajectory where blandness cannot be further intensified. White chocolate mousse oversaturated with its own syrupiness. Dissolved to the highest possible extent of its fading capacities. Emptiness echoing darkness in the labyrinth of words wandering, searching for the thought to recuperate the afflicted unity. Emptiness like an epitome of a denial of the access to the mirror—reminding one what shape is that of thinking.

Self-righteously murmuring in a denial of the intrusion into the sticky amalgamation, the mixture releases a supernarrow whisper-rut, somewhat resembling a slumberous bubble bulging into an elastic boil. Pulsating gummily. Vibrating sleazily.

Pulverized memories enriched with a dose of crumbled dreams. Glucoid mollicules in turmoil. Disturbed by motions in gaseous chambers connecting the nodes of the netmaze. Netwind gently cleansing clogged passages. Breezily dashing through the gale imbued spaces of the slimy cave. Howling drabs, drabbling vacuity. Greasy green & brown cushion warming cold & dry walls. Protective crust refracting gushing jets hurled from the outside, bumping into the exterior, a.k.a.,  façade supremé. Re-constituting generation of energies. Breathing into the walls of the cave allemebering virulent kisses thinning boisterous moussy waves, soothing the hollow corridors temporarily hosting tumultuous drought, drying  ye raging carbohydrate empire. Draining wild billows, thinning into a filigree spread, upholstering the interior of the stately castle. Cotton candy cobweb : like crystallized  pearly droplets halted in a dripping invasion, like shards of the tablecloth —threads, fiery icicles—an outpour of molten liquid crystal screens inhibited by the gentle storm, sieged by allembracing flickering galaxies, radiating from the inside of the cheese-mafotherphunkie-cake.

Pleazy. Kessenem.

As if the cake cutter were made of a liquid, the biscuitesque middle layer becomes mildly saturated. Almost subservient to the meandering rutting. Spongestyling. The solidity of the subversive cut uncompromisingly stirring the creamy buzz.

Like a conspiracy between sunlight and moonshine, a milky lava sprinkles the surface of the walls. Slowly condensing, it luxuriously tosses the widespread layer of a ubiquitous frosty touch. touch screen monitor it is not. Like etherized pixelmation—defrosted. Galehurled into the whirlpool of memory, dreams like an optical fiber decomposed in digitized plasma. optical fiber cable it is not. Pixelboils solidified through a voluptuous decay of melting viral  icicles. Cobweb constituted from crystallized crumbs poured out in a liquid screen geyser. Fluffy tablecloth shyly regaining the position, carefully intertwining disconnected threads.

--hey, do thou knownst that once upon a time it used to be considered as a dignified avant-garde mode of thinking not to separate leisure from work.

--hey, what was understood back then to be a matter of dignity is no less so nowadays, innit.

--?

--?

--hey, ain’t it a bit of a divergence to say that a tendency towards a ferocious eradication of the public-private divide without a critical distance is what the avant-garde used to be!

--hey, thou should knowest that as distinct as it may be, a distorted image of public dialogue is but a stupefyingly trivialized private sphere!

--simile might be an adequate figure of speech here, wouldn’t it. now, to annihilate the distinction between the abovementioned two is but to disrespectfully sweepingly depoliticize both, ha!

--not a fan of the chosen figure of speech as one might be, one hereby claims that to depoliticize them both in such a scenario logical it wouldn’t be, would it. rather, hyperpoliticize them is what it is and what one should loath(e), ha!

Like a silver/ golden exchange, a conspiracy between moonsplash and gleamspread. Sunshowered.

A model icecream parlor amidst the vanilla ocean. Immobilized in carbohydrate heaviness. A cherry domineering the weird dollop. Like a copro / specimen drenched in a disguise of fallacious consistency and color. Color is the tone. All sepiabound now. Delivered on a silver spatula—a slice of dazzling crystal / shitty splendor.

Indigo chasm drowning in the thickness of color. Where there is no shade to succeed a paler nuance is where chasms collapse into a void of their own cul de sac. Abyss filled with the opacity of the color. Indigo vastness like an ink drenched empire. Muted in the hollowness of non-transparency. Confined by its own inhibiting inarticulateness. Contained in the deprivation of expansion. laceworks. Hollowness of muteness slightly unsettled. A tiny beam intruding the muted vacuity. A minute ray boldly subverting the torrential color grotto. A turquoise ridge radiating from the golden sandy oceanbed. A tube of a chime winks lazily. Vibrations, as gentle as a feathery touch of cotton candy, whisper to each other songs of darkness, songs of travesty. A tube of a chime makes another languid move. Whispers another song to the surrounding indigo empire. Vibrations as translucent as sparks, as subversive as mafotherphunkie laceworks, spread. Nanorescuers now impostering the seemingly inaccessible hazy, muted space. All sepiabound now. Dissolving the thickness of the color. As the tubes of the chime swarm. The song intertwining with the unison of the gleam steadily emanating from the slimy, velvety surface of an indigo ocean chasm. Vibrations thinning the surrounding. Tubes of the chime etherize, as the cake cutter is slowly melting and like a tributary leaks into the mighty alloy river, flowing down the walls of the hourglass, coloring the kindred galaxies in the invigorated dazzling crystal / shitty splendor.