Why X Travels Around the Axis – Part V

Framing that dotted territory, irradiate specks anchoring the molecular chaos of scattered lanterns in a darkened park. Closer emerging, the trembling globe bawls blue, encased in ribbons of florescent jade, a rife organelle body, not yet architecture. Sensing the whole, just as the grasp slips, a sheet seemingly bearing only vagrant intensities breaks into powdered vortexes, the excess intermediary matter hovering like froth upon a frosted forest lake, already breath. Continuing along this gravitational path, the marble flattening against an invisible wall, exposing the vast scaled expanse of moth’s wing, squeezing tightly enough around itself to ooze ridged cubes of life. The exposed and fragile milieu of a huddled internal cosmos, gravity pulling the strings of every nerve, every element bent towards the outside, imagining differentiation where there is only the geography of sea. Why is everything an Ocean? But, look, everything bursts into clusters of pollen, fragmented patches of globular clouds, warm beads of anxious sweat crossing section after section of carbon planets. All haloed in still layers of extra-worldly light, layers of pastel brilliance sedimented in folded shades of blue. Expanding, contracting, the liminal vibrating breath; in this arched world, all is synesthetic breath. Behold the concave vessel of vessels, the systole of froth upon it, the diastole of bubbles beneath, before perspective bares its teeth.
Now, your hovers cease; now you fall toward a spread of green.
An innocent green immediately lost to the speeding fabric of air,
Filling your lungs with geometry.   
Lines drawn, crossing
Grey hexagons, collecting
Monoliths soaked in rain.

He observed her slide along the wet pavement with hands suggestively outspread, waving away the remaining raindrops. “I had forgotten the lights”, he exclaimed to himself. In a low voice, but in a genuine tone of solemn awe. No one heard him, of course, despite the raucous multitude of seemingly disembodied limbs moving arbitrarily to and fro, because, here, the city was the only one who truly spoke. The cellular network wavered in concert to the cacophony, and his towering, slender body trembled like he was readying himself for a jig. He was enthralled. Two aimless steps moved forward, a failed attempt to find his way. He was far too dazzled by the electromagnetic speech of the city. Conversing in oscillating bursts of colours, the city uttered glowing words that flashed vistas of desire, unfolding along a grammatical grid, webbed across vacuum. Underneath the coils of meaning, the phonemes pulsed in radiating, yet deceivingly ordered, flickers – spelling out an invitation to merge with them; offering a rhythm that would even replace the beating of the heart with a pure drumming of forces. He observed how the soaring buildings did not in fact scrape the sky, but instead bent and curved as they pressed higher, eventually forming a vast arc, caked in steel and shimmering glass. In a way, he thought, the city is a self-contained bubble, a kind of neon monad. And its beauty was unquestionable.
Undoubtedly, she was there, behind the drapes, her gesticulating silhouette indicated that much.