Pristine pages fall out and we're looking for the staples, finding only stitches. Saddles with no horses, backs broken all the same. The song turns, the sun dips across, and shadows cover up the kitchenette table. We've found crazy in a moteless place.
Cracking the first section of our copy of The Voynich Manuscript (of a version hand-printed with Title Case) we compare notes and scrapbook remnants of those from the other room. They're quiet, their lunch taking them down for a spell of sleep and whatever it is that clouds their eyes. Nick Cave lets on about "Jubilee Street" and we make no more sense of it than we do of the pages and their inscribable inscrutable.
One of the later sections looks like it mentions something about telophase. Then again, it looks like shreds taking apart a wasp.
Hours pass before we realise. Hours holding down a triptych and feeling the ink soak into our skin.
Days come and we're falling out and looking for the staples, finding only stitches holding our limbs together.
We're not strung out. We're only pristine as we watch our shadows sweep.
Written on Friday, 17 October 2014