Peacock Online Review
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from Singularity
On such a battlefield the osmosis of ideas is possible, syllables uttered under the breath of soldiers, syllables obliterated in the mud, the soul of mud never dies. These days she can't feel her legs, sleeping, the reality of her condition invisible to her, too busy looking for the cracks and glitches in the divine stories passed on over the generations. She is overdetermined. She has one eye, and with one eye she can see God. She used to be able to see him, but today she just sees the world, marred and scratched and shivering.
Consider the quiet of the morning.
It is not quiet for me.
Consider how the birds feel.
It is sympathy I have too much of.
And not enough empathy.
The original words get lost, stuck in my throat.
The only truly sacred thing is consciousness itself.
Where are the angels?
Stuck in the words of those who utter their names.
And if those words are destroyed?
Then comes the moment when you will need empathy.
The moon hangs above the trees. It was morning and now it is night. Days pass quickly when there are so many bodies to pray for. If I could, I would breathe life into these clay bodies, but they are not clay bodies, she thinks to herself, and in thinking creates the words for the feeling she feels. The rivers, weighed down by the fish and blood of others, create a network, rituals that flow in the directions necessary to change your perspective on things. There is the possibility of a landscape substitution, a soul substitution, but we can't change the color of the backdrop. The color remains as we are compelled to remember the same things over and over again, to utter the same words over and over again. When the bodies are gone, it is the murmurs that linger in the leaves, carried by the wind and landing on the shoulders of other bodies.