if I was struck down, I did not feel any pain. I only know I’m on my back, head tilted backwards to see what was behind me. the only truth of those things would be in the camera. It was hard to focus the lens, but I captured his face, those bright pin points of pink light in the black cesspool of his eyes, his fangs, a hunger baring. my dealer, and some others, had turned.

only in hindsight do we think about sources.
-was it the contents of those packages, consumed? or
-the sudden exposure to lights?
-where did the glowing green pallor of skin come from?
-was the aura coloured by human energetic systems?
there was something sensed, an otherworld, whenever he touched my shoulder blades. It is not allowed, the touching, but I let him do it, largely because he is my dealer, also because contact could reveal one or the many sources.

If they had struck me down, I did not feel any wounds or bite marks or blood changing in my veins. maybe those ways of transmissions are the ways of old. maybe I’m already turning without knowing.

the lost cousin rides into the arcade where we live, either on an animal or a machine built to look like one. He is searching for a woman believed to be a sister. it is told- he has come to study the imagination music of dragons. I let him pass, to go deeper into the arcade.

I am sent away from wherever I was, either by  train or aircraft. the carry on bag contains remains (possibly my own): ventricular, avenues of blood flow, possibly a lung no longer needed, torn plastic wrappers, utilities almost depleted. the third bag in cargo is full and heavy with unknown things. I say goodbye to thin agents of the art, those responsible for my travels. I leave them seated on plastic chairs in central neighbourhood.

a new, outboard component has been added to my body. this could be the makings extracted from pictures taken, studied and applied. a slim breathing tube, easily assembled in three parts; two airways for the nostrils, one for the brain. content of atmosphere and gasses unknown. I cannot fathom if the air I need makes the density of my bones lighter, or if my body had turned, thus needing such air. I only know I move with silence, in the heart of some deaf conflict. my enemies throw aspects of the room at me, deftly, I avoid collisions. the scenes where I end their lives are not shown, but I am talking to the last general, possibly struck down, paralysed or at the edge of death. on a tablet, I show him the bio of a Russian woman. “She is the specialist, here to dispose the bodies.” it is shown: she has exited her vehicle and is on the way. I see the aftermath, strewn stories below, corpses in suits in disarray. it is not known if i ended the generals’ life.


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