A wretched, vampiric weed clutches the throat of the beautiful flower and squeezes until ichor drips to a pool underneath — flora on flora violence: another proper juicing. Meanwhile the insects of the garden floor – ants and beetles of all shapes, sizes, and cultures – sup upon this fount with full hearts believing it to be Gaea’s honest provision. And from on high, in the earth mother’s stead ambles downhill a conniving shrew to swallow up the lot of them. Mr. Shrew glances at the friend-weed and performs a sweeping bow. He immediately dies.
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Sarah flits her eyes back and forth simulating a blur. The eastern wind flings dust, leaves and all manner of particles in a cloud. She thinks maybe if she follows along with enough speed she’ll capture the entire moment down to the component atom. She dizzies herself to a daze, thinking ‘maybe now’, ‘almost there’, and the like. Her peculiar quest to grasp a small infinitude by speeding up her perception of a single instant enough to slow it down to observable parts … why doesn’t she just film it? Sarah’s eyes glaze over and she’s focused on something on the ground. ‘Ew gross’ she says, then ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.’
Inchoate 