Very white smooth and flat surfaces, hardly marked by lines, and so on; you are the surround - seek contact, but bloodless, seek eyes and even a slight smile, but never closer. You are the safely grazing faces, just faces on engines of soil and slow circlings; you the soft shiny layers of gloss, self-conscious animations of something you've seen somewhere, the moving of a subtlety you wouldn't recognise. He asks "What would you do with contact?" and he can't know if his question seeks an answer he'd rather remain unaware of. If the gradient remains at this time and place, the reaction he reveals (to gravity) will pull him upwards 'til he sees the eyes of women waiting in the restaurant, spread-out faces over cigarettes and coffee. He feels a tiny trickle leave his face, trace its course down through his chest-hair - feels it reverse and soak into his softness, wealed and sold to faces laced by weather and the onset of gravity. Tries to speak to white tables, formica tops and untouched coffee-cups, lipstick stains just waiting to appear, latent in the gleam of china. His eyes clear momentarily, and he recalls a white less smooth; there's a myriad black speck that hangs in the air, legion and mute (the white tops disclose cat's-cradles of black scars). He fears silence, but paints it around his face and hands (his feet are gone, unfelt, but his footprints shimmer in the dust about his knees, his throat), paints a courage he can't feel, sings a hymn he can't remember, hopes the women don't hear. The women never hear.
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