by Ryan Cox
Upon an expanse of land—overlooking the spreading tapestry of liquid physics and freshwater trash that spans out toward the horizon line—stands a solitary figure, immovable among the free-floating particles that dance about in the moonlight, perceiving this scene.
The water slithers up against thick boulders and the earth hirsute with grass breathes the dense night air in hive-mind unison as per usual, but the scene always manages to manifest a different personality each time, and this one is no exception, seemingly teeming with nondescript urgency and insistence.
With time, this scene eventually passes, and he leaves no record of his past-participle presence; no physical imprint upon the sonic net of reality will tie him to that moment.
(The world forgets it the instant it goes away.)
But behind his clenched jaw and pock-marked face lies the inexplicable projection of what just occurred.
(Every photon of that perceived environment xeroxed for future nostalgia.)
Throbbing somewhere deep inside the tumbling roulette wheel of thoughts, images, and sounds is a cartographer working hard time and behind every canvas—behind every nosebleed and behind every childhood morning and every realization of death and every pathetic moan for forgiveness—lies the conscious effort of preservation.
For the instant these moments end, they vanish without a trace.
He is sure glad this one didn’t; he can tell someone took their time making it.