The DM13 Journal
Pseudo-thoughts traversing into the ether of the unknown–that’s what “art” is.
It’s like a dream. You can try as you may to interpret it, but in the end, it doesn’t reveal to you what it’s all about, or it’s deep-rooted significance.
That’s the soft face we caress, and try to hold onto.
Enigmatic. Elusive. Indulgent.
In the teal whirlpools of my youth, there existed a blameless apparition by the name of Zolisephia, cousin once removed of the great phantom Yuki-Onna (Snow Queen to the Japanese).
She spent her idle time chasing hell flies in the abominations of The Second Circle, and spraying the young men of the hinterlands with putrid fragrances that left a corrosive mold and rot in the coarsest hairs of their nostrils.
On my evening twilight flights, I would plunge downward into the desolations of that cyclopean volcano where she resided.
Mile upon mile I would descend and spiral along the Herculean cliffs until, at last, we would meet on a suitable ledge, where we would converse and drink our briny kombucha made of the fermented fears and naiveté of lovers.
Her indwelling presence was a sinister fume that stroked the inside of My pulmonary alveoli with a serrated indifference.
Except, there was no exchange of gases filling My bloodstream–no circulation of vitality, but rather, a diffusion of unashamed contempt pervaded My every breath.
She enjoyed being inhaled, and I needed to expel her from My waking life.
