Wednesday, April 8, 2009
Singularity
The work was done in her tiny garden dark with the shadow of an office building that lay over her peonies like a bruise or an event horizon.
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The labyrinth of gravity solved simply by converting string theory to thread, she slew the minotaur of density and floated out of history.
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The grandmother told a story as they walked, of a girl walking with her grandmother into the forest where a wolf and a girl told a story.
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When the monkey she'd let in her bed revealed himself, she saw the problem with the Great Chain of Being was not the being, but the chain.
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A nameless light in the night sky; the animal howls, gnaws his chain, and dies, not knowing the loss of the word "dog," the name "Pompeii."
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We hymned to doctors; we chanted to priests; we ate strange powders, drank potions, fasted. When we died, our fever modulated into the key of sulfur.
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The carnival of apocatastasis rolls into the galaxy not an eon too soon, setting up its canopy over the abyss so the sun can go out dancing.
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The vortex on the pond where the water strider had been was the sign not of the something that took it but of the nothing that did not.
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One moment in the steely galaxy a falcon gyred, then stalled in his striding on a ripple in the locus: then a spray of neutrinos: then void.
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