— Eric Pankey

Escape the body for a while. Escape from the tired flesh, the façades of old movie sets left to ruin, the doorways and mirrors where shadows brood. Slip like a snake from your skin into an ever-new raw glare. Give in. Let the past and the eternal vie for significance. You are a blank page in a census book, the elegant straight line of a censor’s cross out, the senseless and the clandestine, a little frenzy of wind. Slip the snare of birth, the unruly moment of perception, the grids and systems of notation. Let others sleepwalk. Let others drag the grappling hook of memory. You are weightless. For you, displaced, there is no theory of weightlessness. You are the transit and the transport, the unaccounted-for anomaly, the ordinary pleasure of a slipknot as it slips. If you still had hands what friction, what fire you might rub up.

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