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The street is night, only when the questioning of the location of the night is pressed. Otherwise the street is hypertextualized, flowing ever and ever outward, like rivers and streams dead tired in the search for ocean. It all happens if you allow it, that, in any event, is what I would tell those serpents of water digesting pebbles if I had the heart, but I know that to deprive a system of its systematizing is a fate potentially worse than death, and certainly worse than dead tired. The geometry of the street lends itself to contrast, to an embracing of the supporting role it was born to play in this world overrun by organisms, moss and vine. As the sky sinks lower and lower, the children of Theseus and Ariadne, with public transportation as midwife, talk in low voices amongst themselves about the inevitability of the street taking on the literal, physical characteristics of night. "What would these characteristics be?" asks a teenage girl sitting on the sidewalk with her school uniform twisted and tied into the most indecent of coverings, like a snake forming an infinity loop around her goose-pimpled skin.

"Well," begins another girl with a small computer balancing on the top of her head, "we have to consider that night and day are phenomena of light and positioning, luminosity and relativity, and as such this is obviously an instance of consciousness attempting to snake itself out yet again." The girl, wanting to be a model, had fallen into the continual discipline of correcting her posture through various techniques. She knew as an article of faith that she would soon grow the extra seven inches required of her by her profession of choice like she knew that the sexualizing of the public bathhouse has led to the current population explosion, quid pro quo.

Seven billion with baited breath for Daniel's seventieth week, the streetlights have come on so we know the passage of time is functioning in some capacity. They believed some weeks ago that the abomination had entered the temple, but came to understand that the heart of a compromised and discredited priest is no temple. "Stealth. It comes quietly, intangibly, seeping into even the thinnest of cracks," said the girl waiting for the black lipstick to seep into her lips permanently, like the oil spill she had seen on television.

"Sleep, fatigue. Where the night comes down, the eyelids of the world droop with the weight of all they have seen throughout the course of the day," added the girl in the printed dress both three hundred years too soon and three hundred years too late for her in cyclic time.

"Density. Slavery."

"To what?"

"Dualistic thought."

"Oh that."

The girls supposed the street to be a garden, splintering and shooting in such diversity and generosity to the eyes, mind and touch that the flowers they took themselves proudly to be had but every right to enquire into the mystery of their roots, as a natural allowance of their privileged position at the apex of the rusty pyramid of their adolescent fancy, as well as their representative position within a race in its adolescence. The direction the barbed wire points atop a chain-linked fence tells the orientation of a harvester's heart like the bend of corn stalks tells the will of the wind. The lines of yellow shadow cast by street lights streaming through such a fence on the bodies of the girls coyly yet openly courting these mysteries serve to ground them all the more firmly in the soft, fertile earth that follows like shed skin along the edges of the path the street carves. The girls continue on in this fashion until daybreak, their voices growing fainter, shrinking into smaller and smaller cubes of space until eventually nothing is left but the street itself, swelling and retracting with mathematical fidelity to the pulsations of the day and its many possible locations.

January 18, 2012

Posted by James Bradley on 4/24/12

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