in the brief interlude between the spaces diamonds rustle in the trees.
don’t you see them now? the calm is an illusion circumvented by a ghastly streak of blue in which the clouds have finally given up their surroundings and hovered off onto another mountain, stream, to cloak another town in their glorious grey. the sun is a belly coated in paint, an ink stain which can never be seen directly for fear of blinding.
in the static white column a number of problems arise: what is beyond it? why does what is beyond it change with every shift in perspective? why does there appear light and shadow when the sun is not visible? where is the amber glow coming from?
now take yourself to be the lance: stuck between the spaces is a beating heart, commingling with a state of pure decay. to stick it, you must pierce this hurried attempt to make the image of these spaces complete.
don’t you see them? they are innumerable. it is impossible to complete a description of what cannot be described but by its surrounding something. in the clutched triangles anything could be held, a lock of blonde hair, a curling amphibian’s tail, a newborn child. these are merely examples.
a rustling best describes how nothing sounds when the brittle surface is exposed.