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---A fiction story in multiverse


৺  ꩜ 



Retrieved From The Memory Archive

[The tide will be at its highest at 6.15.]

I opened the satellite map and escape to the river bank, imagining that I was a jailer and that someone might shoot me down, but I left anyway, like a night boat carrying a mission out of the outlet. The shadows of the trees along the riverbank overlapped, and then a gust of wind churned up the leaves again like a scattered array of frightened birds.

The tide will be at its highest at 6.15 and I stand at the threshold of this city and river, watching the water creatures, the rocks and the polyethylene.
All the dead and undead, the discernible and unrecognizable scattering of life. Like the prajapati of the Vedas, dismembered to pieces at the act of creating the universe. , whereupon the whole world came to perform rituals in search of his body.1 The people of this city were performing their own rituals, mini-archaeology on the shore, searching for treasures and placing them carefully in glass cabinets; were there cherubs living in every vacancy? Or are they the dwelling place of a secretly dead ghost, filling a thick gasp or prayer?

Just as it is the hollow left by the crumpled body of a snail, the vacancy where the leaves of a lepidopterous stone pine fall off, the muddy dent of a rubber shoe mark.

If the trace is an absence, time is a transparent cobweb between them.
I feel that my existence is no different from the world of the river bank, where the ghosts of the past and the future haunt it, the time of the conch shell, the time of the green glass, the time of the button, the time of the setting sun. Everything that has not yet begun or has ended is glued to it, become a texture that belongs to the riverbank.

It is a fragile dream of future ruins. It is the fragility of the fleeting light that is reflected in the faded architecture of the modern city. The plastics had been made by large machines and then slowly broken down to become again the molecular components of the organs of living organisms. The urban buildings above ground: concrete, brick and stone, will eventually be packed into the sedimentary rock and turned into a cluttered urban stratum.
Snowflakes swirl down in the silence as  geometric crystals disintegrate and sink into the rust-colored river.




所有死去和未死去,可辨和无可辨的散落一地的生命。像吠陀经中的prajapati,在创世的时候被肢解为碎片,于是整个城市的人都来举行仪式寻找尸体。 城市的人们也在进行着他们自己的仪式,他们在岸边小型考古,寻找吉光片羽,将它们小心翼翼的放进玻璃柜,难道是每一个空缺里都住着小天使?或是一个秘密死去的幽灵的居所,填充着厚重的喘息或祷文?






[Electronic poetry]

+ **

"The river ends up leaving only a stain on the rubber shoes.

The one hiding under a black umbrella is laughing
Laughing that I was destined to find something else to fill my absence"



[A secret ritual]

The slimy creature embedded into the shore , emitting an alluring goose yellow glow in the blue night, She looks like a Mollusks and and the tentacles that stretched in all directions make her like some kind of slimy fungus.


—“Can I come closer?"

Psychic sticky creature "How?"

—“I try to approach you with a fractured fractal body, but I do not seek for shelter. In deep time, in darkness, I mapped your textures with algorithms and learned your language. They are far away in a tropical water. In the first pagoda you built from secretions at your tender age, with thin walls of pale flesh- pink with countless passages and warm chambers. These shapes change my shape and the way we are linked

Psychic sticky creatures
“ when I was only five years old, all ties were always accidental and fragile1 The moon and the tides taught me how to speak, and in their gentle rhythms , I was able to build my shell, and weave language.”

—“The venom of your skin .... The iridescence is destroying my silicon matrix, making blue goo ooze around the wound, but I feel joyful, like I'm drinking a witch's brew. I tuck in beneath boulders and sit, quietly filming a lionfish waiting for its supper. jewel anemones appear giant and glowing on the deep reefs off Eddystone lighthouse. Under the great shadows cast by the rocks, scattered with flesh of pearls, all things begin to kiss each other continually and you make me see them.”

Psychic sticky creatures
“in my homeland, venom is also medicine. And true solidarity is a beautiful and charmingly corrosive process . During the day we hide, low to the hinterland, and at night we will march to the bottom of the valley, closing our eyes half the size of poppy seeds, cooling in the darkness and extinguishing their flame. The optic nerves seep out of the eye sockets and into the pores of the skin, and perception then changes into a sort of multi-point touch”



















unstruck seed syllables

I will become all the glitter, a graceless light floating on the surface of the water, a hundred thousand grains of crystalline powder sprinkled on the feathers of insects, then shaken off piece by piece. I will hide in the corner of the turtle's eye and wait to be pecked at. The starry headband tied in the little girl's hair and the soft net bag in her hands have also captured me several times. I am invisible, silent. Or firm, or loose. The moonlight uses my limbs to build the sinews that hold the night together — silvery white, cold and hard, almost ore, but sometimes I whirl and fly in the wind, unable to stop.

To loss words would be to return to full silence.
At the edge of the decomposition of language, there remains a hint of dislocated noise, an oscillating frequency that flits lightly around meaning and structure, soft as a snort. When the shells of words are cracked open like plaster, their silent, stone-like cores are revealed, which break down into electrons, neutrons, protons and even smaller elementary particles, and finally into a electronic pulse, a reactor made up of these decoupled words, which mineralize, crystallize and map each other.
A stratum of imagination, full of the ore of words, which is the graveyard of language.




New bodies

I know that people love to classify and give names to everything. Botanists say that a flower, consisting of a stem, a petiole, stamens, needles, sepals, and petals, they give names to the womb of the flower, and also to the bud and the fruit. So is the body, with its skin, hairs, bones, and organs

But this body is different from the others, it is like phantom limb— I dreamt that I had a transparent, glowing head, then everything became boundless and can be here or elsewhere.

Let's talk about my birth.

At first it was a feeling like being bedridden,As if lying in bed with strange limbs.

Some data of memories are being splice together, like one keeps waking up in various ways from a long dream until waking up is no different from sleep. A strange sensations brought about by stitches against stitches, but everything is painless and it is clearly an overly pleasant delivery. Memories float loose, like a baby's skull that must be stitched together and flexible before it can be squeezed out of the birth canal to be born. Some of the information spilled out like pus and blood as it was stitched together, solidifying into a kind of crystal that I called scars, which I could feel, a blur of code overlapping in a mass. I think it is this glitch that establishes some kind of boundary that I should not have had.







Electronic poetry

+ **

"The river ends up leaving only a stain on the rubber shoes.

The one hiding under a black umbrella is laughing
Laughing that I was destined to find something else to fill my absence"