You see them around, these time-zoner's, flowing back and forth in their to-go bubbles of set disposition. Their movement yields an appearance that obscures the rigidity of their spellbinding trance-fixation.
These manikins, these...figurines, if you will, follow the trends and flow in the anti-currents of atemporality while being RF-Eye'd and computerized, effectively gauged and measured into a capsule that reflects a (com)pressurized profile--Sorted, stored data.
Your own ideas start to work against you because they (your ideas) supply others with enough precise information to manufacture the tools necessary for capitalization, and capitulation, through optic nerve exploitation.
The experts of steganography (forgive a mere fool for having used such a term) place their digital and physical foot-and-head prints all around us--in the space field of our immediate surroundings. Decoding the imbedded cryptographies becomes the task of the paranoiac, who mostly carves against the anticurrents of time. He warns of the subtle programming communicated in the plain open, but the words fall flat like tinkling cymbals and sounding brass, which makes good music for ridicule and for the mass: kshh-shh, kshh-shh, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, as Everyone satisfactorily bubbles in their uni-spheres.
The girl in the cute skirts expresses an air for times of past. She likes ye olden poetry and exudes a passionate desire for that type of romanticism of the late 18th century. She read to me from her mini-tele-phonic device, "In the southern clime, / Where the summer's prime / Never fades away, / Lovely Lyca lay." And What does the speaker in the poem mean by southern clime? I asked. A time of timelessness, she answered, taking in a full breath and exhaling to show her state of relaxation. Her friend walked in and handed her a poem. Her friend writes poetry. His poem alluded to the greeks, and the Geats, and their feats, and their massive fleets. What philosophy! what might! such tragedy, and comedy!
He said, I didn't even know I was doing that, ho-hum!
She always smiled and pushed up against him. Look, could you help me in understanding this question. It was a simple answer, he said, as he pointed to the issue in her problem while the girl rubbed her breast on his forearm, which served as a repellant that caused him to push off as nicely as he could without seeming rude.
The other one,
She eats her lunch while wearing sunglasses most of the time. She often waves hello and shows you her pearly whites. Her hair is in the shape of two braids, intertwined and sometimes tangled, which she decorates with a daisy. Her lips shine a dull red that matches the cherry lollipops that she likes to suck. She moves in and out from the Station of the Hieroglyphs. A place dedicated to the improvement of the written word.
There is another one. Her pale water colors mask the face that cannot hide the speck in her abstracted eyes. She recognizes the sawdust in mine. She comes in searching for Michaelangelo high renaissance online. She knows the paintings well. She seems to be the only one that truly arrests the time, if not for herself then at least for others. She's a walking paradox; her ability to become more than a sketch 'n time--manikin or figurine--renders her unto a time-space on a canvas of a still life. Guys go goo-goo ga-ga gargling gape mouthed and jerking with galactorrhea, praying and screeching Hail Mary.
At the end of the day, the lights are turned off. Everything gets unplugged, and everyone carries home their burdens. They plug in again, perhaps for a bit of distraction (who understands these impulses that drive our addiction(s)), and effectively forget about time. Some lose time. Some attempt to capitalize on time. Some even try to catch up with time. And detached because of a sense of senselessness, disoriented by a whirlwind, you see them the next day, with all the knowledge in the world and no sense of time in history, further trans-fixed in their bubble-sphere, reading ye olden poetry, singing in the rat-race choir of classics and ageless masterpieces.
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