Because she has the time, she performs the reconfiguring of the dogan. She razes, and ritely begins rebuilding her mental palace of labyrinths and mazes. The masses suddenly grow massless and restless around her, collectively unflexing the muscles of their prowess.
Even running the kitchen hood fan becomes risky; but, only because the old man upstairs is pent up and pissy. It’s become hard for him, continually hearing the business of people living. But, he creaks about the boards at a later and later hour, hoping for an email telling him, “I hear you.”
Implicating the certainty of my missing the hearing of his late night pantry raids.
A silent fireside chat.
And, even with computer processing, the avalanche of paperwork rolled over the system. A coattailing bug being currently debugged.
Some people disappeared; others went silent but seeable; and then there were those mouths which could not stop talking.
And, she wrote the same word so many times over the years, that she could no longer remember if the ‘i’ came before the ‘e’ or if the case is exceptional.
“We must stop wasting time,” he said, for the innumerable time.
“Then stop saying the same thing and get down to it. Watch the shape of the s curves of my shifting body, stretching. Do you see how the area under my curves remains the same in the end?”
“Yes.”
“You see how some iterations of my curve are more dynamic than others?”
“Very much.”
“Good. As regards this ardent analogy, ultimately, some will get it and some won’t.”
“So, we go slowly, take advantage of additional time.”
“Why not. Now hush and map my s curves.”
“Curvaceous calculus.”
WrittenCasey 