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  • Writer's pictureAmelia Nicol


Folding brain into pockets, sheets ripped from pages of outdated anatomical guesses and lack of information in some space hoping for courtesy enough for the sake of accuracy and ever seeking rather than ever finishing the idea of knowledge. Either ever responds in attainments conceptualizing further process and concept itself needs wild, random guesses. Could do without the embarrassment and frustration, as if reason could do without the needful doubt and even more necessary deception. Origination as if free sharing of thought and idea isn’t a generative process, or in kind congruence with the necessity fighting against the desecration and degenerate values we beckon ourselves endure. What challenges we handle ourselves with, what strange ways to postulate the relevant stances necessary to the repetition of wording and timing of non-congruence in off stance for postulate as peripheral. Process, procedures for indicating ourselves about the bends we curve ourselves out of thought and action, wild guesses and necessary falsity in stance toward a relevant position. Testing, testing, assessments and the risks all laid out as if we were somehow prepared for it in collective speculation and its random indicating placement. Forethought and assumption, precognition and the tendency therein to mystify itself in wonderment and imaginary placement of transition and regard, shifting thoughts beyond the shallow indictments so easily conditioned to render in the blink of an eye. It is not hidden, it has not disappeared, it is just indeterminate and the more you reach, the farther away it becomes; accidentally quoting some old writing that a Buddhist monk wrote in sand and swept away centuries before any of these buildings knew our names, long before any hope for such relevance understood it was the back of a laundry list and lack of eloquence that barred the entrance to the auricle pumping some beat to a reception that should never attune itself to the mocking numbers letters have worked so hard becoming. Irreverence and anti-authoritarian dissonance to the ideas of ownership of thought or being, to belonging past the will to decide for yourself whether you belong and the fury somewhere in your heart at the thought. Fury bound like passionate embrace to idea, trying to remember something without getting frustrated and pushing the idea farther away. Passing limbs remembering stances they were once in for moments and happily swinging to other sets of inference quickly and to the sound of the question about whether music playing in the background heaves heavily at the influence of your words or the inspiration you are likely to infer according to a postulate of reference in ambiguity for the places you are never allowed to ask the sorts of things you should never be asking yourself for. A thought will never be my own again and the power to move at all has nothing to do with will, the differences in the buried weights and pressure we swing ourselves with, the graceless vulgarity and necessary time tabling for the petty chances that peripheral will solve itself as an irrational while humming out tunes and variances that seem distant to the chance observational limits of commensurable data to alias an effect of perception for long enough to convince myself i’m still awake and then stumble kindly and bleakly back into the small intellectual holes of dribble and the fundamental disagreements that we can’t help but having with gravity and our ungracious limbs in repetitive phases and phrase transitions that grip each other with boredom and just filling in the filtrate for some answers that no one else seems wanting or fearless enough in seeking. Why seek them out? Whom could possibly know, and what toil lies beneath the heavy heaving sighs and cast glances in frames pocketing themselves around floors of members dosing each other with charge and suddenness of inference. Surprise is never met with itself in such instances, just passing along again the chains of relevance in seeking nothing in such heavily [protruding tragedy] as the creature to himself, an animal to a body, an ego to her own or some other easy framed medley in avoidance tactic toward the dialectics stuck in dichotomies or dualities and unable to name the tabling for fear of the reminiscent disappointment in lack of information from sectors that imagine it always must be so like their own to be able to confront or conform with them against such hideous confirmations as falsity. Generative ambiguity takes away from the degenerative process in generalities, or the rigidity in the ever tightening grips of the ideas of specializing are toning themselves from those whom care to seek more than one place and shift quickly and accordingly to avoid the congresses of those frustrated at the lack of self enough to try and fill their dispassion with the supposed lack in others. There are splinters being traded for boards and time spent in boredom and ridiculousness to conserve the wilderness hopeful with its desecration intact and not picking up so easily upon others’ tact or delinquency is a diligent fucking process.

To easy, too easy, sorry. 12? noon or midnight?


ill forget again

and you

canvas like strange bones

all those odd scrapings

cold windows or something

guess its better not to


before I forget, I wanted to tell you about the sound against the window panes in a way that wasn’t completely annoying or a frenzied feeling.

You aren’t allowed there and this aint about allowances

or how far your mind has drifted to any particular corner of instance

or insecurity



the matter at hand forcing itself upon you while you delinquently resist


as if any cornering mechanism were enough for me to squeeze some sort of rhythm through

to save myself form, sure

to save myself from surety and reliance, cast deviance and decay

the mountains mourned today with the sound of snow

and the bleak, grey air dully pressed the movements against frames of memory and fragments of imaginary speech

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