Storystyling : Unseasoned Seasons (foYr / 8)

Kaleidoscopic Rhapsody of Desire

Being vegan, i can’t say i am fascinated by the fuzz of the entangled forests of theirs. Nor am i intrigued by the buzz of the flows conjured up through unlikely communicational tunnels of theirs. I am certainly not inspired by the flows those murky currents constitute. Triangulated flows between their fantasies, bank accounts, and deities of whatever kind they choose to adore do not provoke either curiosity or interest. Their membership in gangs and long hours spent in the zones of zoning out do not titillate my biochemistry. Clearly, they by no means coincide with my idea of virtuality. I couldn’t care less about those shoes of worshipped steps, suits of what one does, looks of one’s look. Their apps are but distant galaxies—inaccessible as much as they are undesirable. I don’t.

However, I frequently observe the milkish halo emanated from their faces. The radiance permanently emitted from those shrines of physiognomy is an inexhaustible source of wonder. The reflection spread from those spots of illumination is hugely inspiring to me. I don’t know how they perceive that what appears as carrying unimaginably heavy weight. I don’t know if they feel the heaviness of the weight that seems to be the shadow of their hours spent in unlikely zones. But, I frequently observe the reflection in the--hourglass.

I wonder if that what appears as such heavy weight of their zoning they perceive as signal in the communication channel. As I observe the reflection in the hourglass, all the foggy forestry hiss dissolves in its unawareness of the quirky river in its very midst. As I observe the reflection in the hourglass, I hear green stems gently necking the cool breeze combing thick chunks of hot air sustained above the delicate leaves on those hazy dancers. I hear the smiles of the constellations whispered into the lazy, heavy reign of suspended movements infected by the tonic from the cosmic gland.

I wonder if it spreads through the air saturated with poisenous molten amber. I wonder if it saturates the whisper melting into each and every nanocrevice of that sticky cobweb, smearing across the whole poisenous empire iridescent cotton candy veil. webwiered.

***

Each step a pixel tile on the mosaic of their walks. Each nanobyte a package of information streaming from their apps into the flux surrounding them, a sparkle scratched out of the virtual friction between those digitized miniatures of their everyday. (we’ve been pieces to each other’s puzzles.) Their devices are the mirrors of their fantasies of the walks they’d walk, suits they’d wear, shoes they’d admire. Their looks are an image of the paradigm of focus. Their interests are optional, their futures fluctuating between the imagery derived from dreams and investment in divided attention. They dream of dreaming a world pictured by the lens of their cameras. They imagine they long for the frame they never saw. They wonder just why that urban forestry around them is not simply information provided by their apps, a number on the endless string of figures infatuating the remnants of their sensory apparatuses, a shoe, a suit—a look they could worship. I don’t.

Each step a pixel tile on the virtual oneiric mosaic of their everyday. A foot moves, the sole touches the pavement, their wish to move ever so decisively towards the next in the series of the embodiments of a conjured up casino mecca, gambler paradise…u name it…increases exponentially, proportional to the proximity of it, which is continuously. Each step a realization of digital fancy -- fluttering chunks of ones & zeros : kaleidoscopic rhapsody of desire. Each pixel tile a bite of the sky devoured by the rhizomorphic pathway flowing like a web through that unlikely cityface. (we’ve been pieces to each other’s puzzles.) The rhizomorphic pathway keeps flowing through that imaginary forestry. A reflection of distant constellations in microembraces of their leaves. Silent cocoons cherishing those subtle sparkles.

When they surfaced from the leaves’ protective whisper is now a memory. When that very memory inhabits an increment in chronos’s empire ahead of the moment when it is purely an invocation of the moments sunken in the depository of defunct instances, it will still be a memory. But, it is always in the present. In spite of its perception from different angles in the intersections of the time axes. We’ve been pieces to each other’s puzzles. Like phunk!

/

A foot moves. Sole touches the pavement. A pixel tile flutters and absorbs its movement. A tie nestles in the whiteness of the shirt. Suit embraces the accessories. A pixel tile flutters and annuls its allure. The look focuses. Strings of ones & zeros ignited. A pixel tile flutters and a sparkling reflection spreads.

Apps screech. Virtual cards alerted. A pixel tile flutters. Chimeric fiscal machines obediently awaiting swiping. A pixel tile flutters. Gold reserves elusively mysterious. A pixel tile flutters and melts the hiss in the communication channel.

When grey rain rains the oceanic web, their shoes disintegrate in the echo of the clouds’ quirkiness. When grey rain rains a sparkling forestry, their suits crumble into the smile of the distant constellations. When grey rain rains streams of crappy-crystal memories, their looks focus on the magic of figures, and the city is awashed in—reflection.

A pixel tile flutters. A digital droplet sliding down the labyrinthine walls tickles the molecules of liquid crystal. Foamy noise scratches the lethargy of the screen. Liquid crystal molecules stir gently. Hiss scrapes the dormant surface. Memories—sunshowered.

A pixel flutters. The foam solidifies. Coats the surface of the liquid crystal screen. A pixel flutters. Rhizomorphic labyrinth mutes the buzz of the luxurious delta. Fiber optic cables vibrate with the wave of the shadow of molten amber. Milkish vastness retrieved.

Myriads of pixel tiles cascade flooding the nodes in that webwierd. Kaleidoscopic rhapsody revels in the  clouds of flakes of crushed fantasies, debris of smashed desire. Dissolving into the static air filling the dignified space surrounding the table accompanied by four chairs. Cocoons yawn.  Reflection sneaks out of that muted galaxy of leaves. Snakes through the avenues leading to the glass facades necked by oceanic oneiredome. Glides between digital titillations. Merges with the glow generated from static fuzz.

Myriads of pixel tiles cascade flooding the nodes in that webwierd. Kaleidoscopic rhapsody cakes the surface of the mighty table. The air in the stately castle cleansed of noisy particulates. The flow reconstituted. The tablecloth hybridized with the milkishness from the screens. Sprinkled by the shadow of the grey rain. Like mischievous waves flashing a smile from the crest of the river to the indigo blanket embroidered by golden maps. maps of remapping. all being palephotonized now.

When memory of an ink mane dancing wildly through windy tunnels surfaced from nocturnal tales is the past now. When it inhabits the moment ahead of what was the immediacy of its making itself manifest to the world it dwells in will be the past of some other instances ungraspable. There are many pasts of memories, just as there are many futures of those continually dissolving and constantly arising increments of chronos’s empire. And yet, it is always in the present. Like phunk!

--Kessenem. / Pleazy.

Verily.