Testing The Site

I test it every day, every hour. The way it responds to sound, light, trauma. The taste of food and sadness. The smell of wine and insincerity. Traffic and souls breaking. Sometimes, red is the colour of him leaving, sometimes rust. Scraping noises can initiate childhood, while buttery textures press heavily on the most unwanted parts of time. All these hours, these responses, these causes. Cores. These sharp cores of memory, reaction. This core is like the core of a fruit, but sweeter, stronger, deeper - distressingly - and shimmers in the gold of night. It goes like this:

suffer in pools of dim light
or flashing darkness

See how it works? I test it every day, every hour. This machine inside that can't be a machine because how can something industrial feel like stars with scalpels set on fire that twist maniacally through every organ with flesh still intact? How am I intact? They say it's the brain so why do I feel it

here and
here and
here?

Songs play at 2am in venues lit with dreams. Dreams are an accelerant. They light the starry sky of consciousness. They accelerate. People rust in private places. I am a person. I am a place. The site is not being tested, it is being lived.

The tests are not tests. They are in-breaths of lash curls and coffee dates. Splinters of sleep and corners of a sentence I'll never recall. You can't test something so unstable.

At 22:37, I feel alive. All these perfect syllables.