under those wires

the wired landscape: disturbing statues of some distant invisible power. no traces of love around here. moloko in the headphones: should've been could've been. none of this really happened. ever. my eyes produced their own wires i tried to connect to: the sound the thought the vision. a path between the fields you take only when you intend to become one of those wires pointlessly reaching toward some unknown center. yet my stroll is de-centralized: its pattern is that of suddenly awaken memory: the more i walk the deeper in time i sink: the space of no wired connections: the freedom of movement: intactile love.

::: all my past life is mine no more the flying hours are gone like transitory dreams given o'er whose images are kept in store by memory alone :::