Tuesday, April 28, 2015

Paradise Lost / part 1


I  ...  you, he says, choosing to omit the word.
You? she wonders.
Yes, that is to say, the randomized field of quantum interference within which I may or may not ... reside.
Are we entangled, then? she queries.
In my imagination, certainly.
Do you  ...  me  as merely a commodity?
More as an imperfect reflection.
Can fragments fully love?
Intertextually, you mean?

Which version of modernity (post / post-post / meta / pseudo / alter) is he aligning himself with?

These thugs, what exactly do they want?

Is post-irony even conceivable?

Five billion years later, the universe has reached a state of total and irreversible entropy. The weather forecast calls for temperatures hovering right around absolute zero across all of space/time. His desire, needless to say, has cooled somewhat. Obsession, however, is indestructible. A single human thought takes a million years, and yet he cannot help himself thinking it.

Do you  ...   me? he asks, the omission of the word saving him perhaps 500, 000 years.

Without admitting to the depths of her emotional vacuity, she's inclined to consider it extraneous.

Let me think about it, she says, and I'll get back to you in 2 million years.

Her saying this, of course, requires 3 million years.  He can't even fathom the math, the frozen interval of the impending wait.


"These displaced people are living on golf courses. "

They are perhaps seeking the singularity in an increasingly standardized world.

Many of them are too poor to even rent clubs, let alone own a set.

In the midst of a tragedy of this magnitude, is golf even relevant?

"In either case, our forces are fully deployed."

Worst case scenario?

I'd prefer to defer comment until after the inevitable blood bath.


Even as the chaos, as meaning is mistaken on the molecular level, as ...

She feigns surprise at his advances / would have preferred something slightly more fictitious

She thinks: He sees himself as a genuine protagonist, while all I see is a jumble of ontological cliches.

Overblown, absurd, hysterical, she says.

My desire? he asks.


My attire?


My ... 

As for the sex; assuming, that is, if; senseless, sublime, almost sensual, more stylized than substantive; surfaces, almost but not quite, touching ...

He chalks it up to a straightforward electromagnetic divergence; she, sighing, ponders numerous, highly implausible outcomes.