The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

the frame, after the last frame, the frame

tiny interior of the womb of hir dancing
all of these need nothing but image and sound, flesh and voice
none need compensators, linguistic anchors
states of minds, operators across virtual bodies
try and again i make the situation of my life
a slip would ruin everything, there are no slips
severing the links of memberment
joining the links of dismemberment, prims have no memory
when was someone here, when did someone do this
when has someone left, why are we always in mourning
s-he cannot move a frame more, nor would s-he
s-he has always already disappeared, s-he already taken out
as if to something, some event, s-he has gone, left us
there was nothing on the other side of the hill
there was no other side, there was no hill
s-he did not know that i did not know that, you did not know that
what we know we do not know
what we know is nothing, and we do not know nothing
the frame after these frames, o loss
not knowing loss, our mouths open to skies
no words, nothing emergent
frame, no glimmer of light, a dark matter
darker matter, frameless

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