lamdalamdalamda

ten days into the new year, and the only movie i've seen is the remake of stepford wives. i'm hungry and i don't know what for. there was a black squirrel on my block, but now he's roadkill. newness cures everything but desire.

while we talk, i don't hear much, i don't listen, much. i think about an image, hers. and the distribution of memory. her image becoming a part of my insides, a scar that tells me how to react when that image crosses my path: both . i imagine her lips coming out of my head, her eyes mischieviously gazing from my fingernails. i agreed to not see movies for a month. now i see our encounter as an isotropic object, a sphere perhaps, always changing, but never in appearance. i'm going limp. i am drunk, inattentive, distant, cold. lacking. her voice is a lulling monotone, but she's giddy, a delirium of poses. i get home, and i read about film. about apophasis, and i realize, i cannot speak about us. my reading light is insufficient. i can't understand the french. god's omnipresence disappears. in the sublime gaze of martyrdom, god cannot be present, for martyrdom is for the solitary, in it cannot be the presence of god, for the death is a going. the suffering is one of the dying, but it also murders. at the instant of death, the martyr is flung from god, and his all being presence is forgotten. the t.v. is dark, and she is looking at my record collection. i am sneaking away and reading "awaiting oblivion". she is talking about nothing. she presses play, and the blast of sound shocks us. i am worried.