Work Text:
It breaks again. Before your eyes, though you are not there, a chirurgical architecture of movement and flow, stillness and stagnancy, regression and return. The hour hand points at five. The heart beats. The hour hand points at three. Sterile, visceral, devoid, red with blood, orange of rust, shimmering bronze, figures of pale blue fog. Each heartbeat, each winding of the clock, each electronic chirp, each hollow warble, it is all undone. Nothing. True nothing. Not a black nothing or a cold nothing or a quiet nothing but the pure absence of anything itself to be measured against. There, in the truest emptiness of the world, you are not there. A spark. You are there, the clock, the beating heart, the flowing river, the gentle breeze, the rising sun, the roar blood, the tides, the moon, the endless march of all things that are life and death and meaning itself- You wake. It's september 11th again.