The shade house has more to offer than a night of fetish and speaking compulsion.
The choice to puncture the white of the eye and see off into that dream of no paroxysm.
For me, the wolf, the coyote responded to the vicissitudes that develop around staged plots.
Paroxysmal nocturnal sight of interpolated plots, finding it away and with transmogrified parts.
The lost forms that seem so importunate in its many moons, maybe not so.
Maybe there was a form that saw through blue/green light particles.
Maybe it once in a time again ran from the stagnant electrons and transferred to the scintillant sea.
Perhaps there is the bruit that it keeps running from those clinging electrons, that electricity that feels like paroxysm.
It is often intramural to those circuits that look into the enkindled speculum.
Once again it seeks the mountains with its twin.
They might both be running from those alternating currents. Her; through obliquitous lines and him; through shifting silhouette.
These two do not want to forget again in the conflagrant shadow.
All words and images by nyaituppi