Opacity gives way to a very slight translucency.
Vague impressions.
Fragments, barely eidetic.
Figments, lingering, not narrative.
But such as had gathered over the day,
over the past months, years,
accumulating, accruing...
gathering interest ...
waiting for the Theatre of the Night Mind.
Sight becomes touch.
Sensual transgressions take place.
A synaesthetic exchange, this for that.
And all is elusive, liquid, fugitive.
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