There is an absence now of any simulacra. Letters home which, upon departing the envelope, go instantly blank. Piety is nearly always fraudulent.
Talking at the sheep farm about the politics of local libraries, watching a storm gather due west and slowly work its way towards us. Gifts, participatory ones.
What slows, softens. What sifts.
Priapic appetites, infighting. Precipices.
Sexual phantasms making secret demands - eliciting promises we only find out about later.
Travel plans. Totem poles.
We who are divested of images go around begging images and then - unexpectedly - encounter the one who makes clear why the image obscures what is sacred. Liminal boundaries, lucid appropriations. Dreamers leaping into another's dream.
Lured elsewhere, by unfamiliar gods. Noteworthy exhalations. In the middle of you, tasting you, forbidden in you. Mothered in you, maddened in you. More of you, always.