Shifting in fluid plumes of purpose and the landscape of the demotic heart. Oblivion is a thousand shapes of loss. Of campfires and the farce of night in a country of platforms rolling towards the goatbodied dark. Mountains drifted white into the impermanence of the dunes, walked as a map nobody missed, inconstant, here the failed desert and the uselessness of art. Tents dreamed faster every day, odes to the return of water and the possibilities that were listening between the lines. Blowing fluid, chimeras abdicated their classical cold, moved, set, concluded: the sand remembers one return.
A reconfiguration of page 370, The Satanic Verses, Salman Rushdie
Jeffrey Little | Dogon A.D. and the Hard Blues Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)