indirect misfire

The GPS lead them to a dead end, or rather, to an open space in the middle of nowhere. The hour was dark. The uncertainty of location triggered a quick response to re-situate into a sense of control, and the feeling of being lost was short-lived, so they drove around aimlessly, jumping into random freeways and entering dicey streets. Eventually, they found and re-entered the main road. He did not seem to have anything to talk about nor did she. Hands reached over and under, across and...there was continual indiscreet staring out of the windows that communicated a thousand screams, or nothingness.

They were a representation of (hyper)reality—a mere conditioned reflection throughout years of customary expressions and habitual gestures.

As an effective sleepwalker, managing the art of dreaming, this particular individual perpetually observed and discerned between mirage and oasis, and unable to locate a difference, he always thirsted for something beyond any immediate matter at hand. This nasty habit turned his mind inside out and outside in to the point of indifference, and to the point where his conscious was full of nonsense. a nonsense conscious.

He'd empty graham crackers until the box grew hollow. He'd sit in meetings, but his mind would float away with the breeze that swirled through it. A swim in the salty ocean would be a better spent afternoon than sitting in class discussing poetry. It was a question of being and becoming. Should he disturb the universe, or destroy it, was he even capable of either? Were any of these actions, if indeed they can be called actions, even possible? The day prior during a meeting, he stood up in the middle of the PowerPoint presentation and said, “excuse me, I'll be right back” and walked out.

Attempting the option of silence, he withdrew from social affairs; he no longer went to class; he stopped working; he stopped thinking; he stopped...and everything continued. He became a free particle that coalesced into and out of that field not bound by an external force, a region of constant potential, and there he remained. Free. Radical.

Processing sensation of experience into events, her agency became largely dictated by paranoia, and she resembled a vessel, a mere receptacle, where memories, after (re)formed, lived; In short, she seemed a coherence addict. And why not? How could anyone return to living after being visited by the dead? She tended to confuse existing for living. She avoided absurdity and nonsense; she almost always never sometimes returned a gaze; the only comfort she found in noise came from its static property.

They met each other. An accident. Destiny. Divine intervention. Freak accident. Matrix anomaly. Like the seeming reality and concrete structures that reflected off their flesh, solidity and even shinny metals contain star dust. The idea of their seeming clash ruptured the pristine, it seemed, but through the cracks...that's how the light gets in. They discussed theory and reality over a cup of coffee and laughter. Together, they formed, deformed, destroyed, and reformed worlds. They noted the inevitability of decay, and together they deconstructed networked silence-violence patterns and abstracted fears. After much speech, their mouths went to better use. Their philosophies and theories drifted and dissolved as they searched for wisdom in ancient occult teachings. When they'd meet, nothing could be heard but the faint chant of an ancient trance: “ohh...mmm.”

Reference:
Endnotes(zine), Aztechnograph.