Title: Colonadium
Subtext: Midtown Direct.
Date: 16 Oct 15 (Friday in the PM)
Time: 2 minutes
Replies: 27
Revisions: 45
Publicity: Superfeed

From within and without, the voice of a fathomless deep pervades and contains us, inhabiting but unstruck by the reflexes it animates. Surrounding the temporal plane on all sides, from above and below, the sacred heart of the living observes life in four dimensions with a mysterious concern. Some call this the Beings of the Spirit World, but it is ourselves.

Doubtful though, that this is the only personal life native to the esoteric realms, or that there arches a single firmament, or that spirituality and physicality are two possibilities in a binary system. So some confusion then, as to who or what we are referring when we talk about these things naturally arises, and may obfuscate revelations, especially between visionaries.

For the sake of narrative clarity then, we shall hereafter call the ethereal place we now speak of, Spirit World-1. Married to the karmic wheel at every radial point without effect, Spirit World-1 is an infinity adjacent everywhere to our own.

In the more immediate environment, which we’ll call “Regs”, data points are sticky; the vortex of spit, the stifled vocal eruptions edging off the last consonant of every onrushing syllable, the way the word, “again!” broke the pattern of each incensed ex post facto prohibition like a period preceded by a brutal grace note, completing the command while almost simultaneously demanding its repetition, the wild loops tornadoing through her bedroom, back hand and palm in their wake, the apparent total loss of reason belied by the consciousness not to bruise, the monster inside the artist of her safety, unleashed upon her like the Cracken, piercing the ocean of her childhood modernity. “You – never – talk – that – way – to – your mother – again! You – never – talk – that – way – to – your mother – again!” These moments of focus became the chosen samples from which the character wave of Mandy to Mandy was drawn.

But in the rarefactions of herself, the swinging balance of circus mirrors could resemble that undulating back trunk of her older brother’s 1987 Buick Cougar, two weeks after the raw hamburger meat was left and forgotten by an impossibly kind girlfriend, until, for a moment like now, Mandy was able to glimpse what filled her cup of chatter, and the whole disgusting mess was exposed to be the sublimely knotting floor of a great grange, hosting our cosmic contra dance. The smartly woven design revealed an impelling force manifest in the pattern, as she nearly mistook the synchronicity for a compelling order.

Opening her eyes as she felt her seat sink in slight seesaw, she moved both knees to the left, clearing a path for the man who hung now hunched over her right side with an intentional smile, one arm on the luggage rack above them both.

“Station Stop is Newark Broad Street. Change here for the Gladstone branch, Morris and Essex, trains to Dover. Hoboken train directly across the platform. New York Penn next.”

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