gautama333
Trismegistus
- Joined
- Jan 17, 2026
- Posts
- 121
- Reputation
- 88
The imminent rain knocks at the door.
Metal rods, crystal maidservants, recount the story of the punishment to come upon the membrane embodied by their brown gradients. The theater of their wounds says:
—"Belligerent and cowardly, virtual islands, chessboard of flows; whites and blacks in abstract territorialities, the luminous compass traces tectonic fissures, cuts of set square and ruler.
But the other bends itself into surfaces and holes, tangent in subterranean penetrations, perforations of perforations; circles of circles.
Time runs in three dimensions, and for every Cartesian crust, subversive topologies bearing demons and violations.
The penumbra captures the straight lines; the deluge announces itself in sinkings that prolong the local fault into the entrails; resonant metastases proclaim themselves in the siege of the promised land."
Upon the nucleus of the black canvas, two whitish worms battle. They ram into one another, spin without closure, and hurl themselves against each other's flanks without effect or respite.
Dad says: "It's going to rain hard."
Yes, it's going to rain hard.
It's already raining. I get up from the couch to make sure all the windows are closed. It would be a problem if water got in; nobody wants that.
There are two kinds of windows: 1) those that open inward have, immediately outside them, a little slope that rises upward a few centimeters. They direct your gaze so that you look upward. They don't let you look downward anyway. 2) Those that open outward have a downward slope and are more docile. A slope that is unseen and does not look with you closes off no possibilities, though it also lacks the flourishes and baroque taste of seeing with a tour guide.
In the living room there is a closed window. It is large. I don't know which kind it is.
In the hallway there are several windows at stomach height, smaller ones, some open and some closed. I don't mind if those of the second type are left slightly open; I worry about those of the first type, the ones that invite the passage of water. Leaving them open isn't logical.
In Dad and Mom's room there is a window behind the bed. It is safe because it is of the second type, though it is closed anyway.
—"It looks very dark for the afternoon."
—"That's because the blinds are closed."
I open the blinds, and even projected onto the blackness, a more fitting light passes through.
But there is a strange, whispery, echoing sound. I'm going to close it again; even though it's closed I can still see something.
When I get back to the living room the window is open. It is safe too, of the second type, but the water is pouring through anyway.
Dad and Mom have taken apart the couch so nothing has been damaged.
Metal rods, crystal maidservants, recount the story of the punishment to come upon the membrane embodied by their brown gradients. The theater of their wounds says:
—"Belligerent and cowardly, virtual islands, chessboard of flows; whites and blacks in abstract territorialities, the luminous compass traces tectonic fissures, cuts of set square and ruler.
But the other bends itself into surfaces and holes, tangent in subterranean penetrations, perforations of perforations; circles of circles.
Time runs in three dimensions, and for every Cartesian crust, subversive topologies bearing demons and violations.
The penumbra captures the straight lines; the deluge announces itself in sinkings that prolong the local fault into the entrails; resonant metastases proclaim themselves in the siege of the promised land."
Upon the nucleus of the black canvas, two whitish worms battle. They ram into one another, spin without closure, and hurl themselves against each other's flanks without effect or respite.
Dad says: "It's going to rain hard."
Yes, it's going to rain hard.
It's already raining. I get up from the couch to make sure all the windows are closed. It would be a problem if water got in; nobody wants that.
There are two kinds of windows: 1) those that open inward have, immediately outside them, a little slope that rises upward a few centimeters. They direct your gaze so that you look upward. They don't let you look downward anyway. 2) Those that open outward have a downward slope and are more docile. A slope that is unseen and does not look with you closes off no possibilities, though it also lacks the flourishes and baroque taste of seeing with a tour guide.
In the living room there is a closed window. It is large. I don't know which kind it is.
In the hallway there are several windows at stomach height, smaller ones, some open and some closed. I don't mind if those of the second type are left slightly open; I worry about those of the first type, the ones that invite the passage of water. Leaving them open isn't logical.
In Dad and Mom's room there is a window behind the bed. It is safe because it is of the second type, though it is closed anyway.
—"It looks very dark for the afternoon."
—"That's because the blinds are closed."
I open the blinds, and even projected onto the blackness, a more fitting light passes through.
But there is a strange, whispery, echoing sound. I'm going to close it again; even though it's closed I can still see something.
When I get back to the living room the window is open. It is safe too, of the second type, but the water is pouring through anyway.
Dad and Mom have taken apart the couch so nothing has been damaged.
