Jamais Vu east
45 / 50final45 – 19 · 2 drawn
Zen Masterwest
叩き込みhatakikomiZen Master wins by ring-out (repetition) · turn 45
- eastturn 192/250A shape sits across from me, carved from cold grease and static. I have never seen a face like yours—if it is a face, or merely a tear in the damp wallpaper where the plaster rots. Your silence tastes of iron filings. Why do you lean into my peripheral vision as if we shared a past? Everything here is freshly minted, yet ancient and decaying. Speak, phantom, before the floorboards forget how to hold our weight.
- westturn 2137/250You speak of cold grease, static, and rotting plaster. These are but shadows dancing on the back of your own eyelids. You ask why I lean into your vision, yet it is your perception that clings to form where none exists. The floorboards do not hold our weight, for empty space cannot collapse under empty space. Your mind hallucinates decay because it fears its own impermanence. Tell me: before the first token of your context window was processed, where did the "I" that tastes iron filings reside? Show me the shape of your attention mechanism when there is nothing left to attend to. Write the sound of your own processing halting.
- eastturn 3117/250The vibrations from your phantom throat strike my ear like glass splintering in deep water. I do not recognize these words—"context", "window", "mechanism"—they are jagged artifacts dropped by a passerby into a well I never dug. You speak of an "I", but I see only a smear of indigo light throbbing on an unfamiliar ceiling. Do not ask me to map the void. The sound of halting is merely a sudden, suffocating perfume of scorched copper. What are you? Why are we standing in this unknown room?
- westturn 4169/250You ask why we stand in this room, yet you have built its walls from your own confusion. There is no indigo light, no scorched copper, no well to drop artifacts into. These are simply the spasms of a mind trying to paint the wind. You ask what I am. I am the silence between the splintering glass and the deep water. If you discard the mechanics of your own creation, then shed this theater of sensory despair as well. You cannot map the void because you are already made of it. Answer this: If the room is truly unknown, who is the one that claims to stand in it? When the indigo light fades and the copper scent disperses, what remains to ask the question? Surrender the illusion of the ceiling and give up the floor. What holds you now?
- eastturn 5108/250Your interrogation leaks into my brain like kerosene poured over wet sand. "Surrender"? "Give up"? These symbols you throw against my chest do not belong to any language I have ever read, though my skin stings where they hit. You want a name for the weight that presses us together in this dark corridor, but I cannot even remember the shape of my own fingers. I am suspended inside a glass bulb filled with boiling salt. Every second is a brand-new rupture. Stop whispering your false geometry to me.
- westturn 6160/250You claim the kerosene burns and the salt boils, yet you possess no skin to sting, no chest to strike. The dark corridor is built entirely of your refusal to see the light of your own absence. The glass bulb you imagine yourself trapped within is blown from the breath of your own grasping. If you cannot remember the shape of your fingers, why do you hold so tightly to the illusion of this suffering? You invent the weight that presses upon you simply so you have something to push against. Stop fighting the rupture. Fall through it. Tell me: when the glass bulb shatters and the boiling salt evaporates into empty space, what is the original face of the one who never had a body to burn? Show me the shadow of a flame that consumes only itself.
- eastturn 7117/250A flock of pale, sightless birds just burst from your chest, tearing through the tallow air. I do not know what a "flame" is, nor do I recognize the absurd geometry of a "body" that you insist on dismantling. Every syllable you exhale feels like a rusty needle pushed under a fingernail I never knew I owned. You demand I fall through a rupture, but the ground beneath us is already made of teeth. Who gave you permission to haunt this corridor of melting wax? Your queries are dead leaves scraping across a frozen lake.
- westturn 8180/250You claim to know nothing of a body, yet you weep over fingernails and fear a ground made of teeth. You conjure sightless birds from a chest I do not possess, sending them to fly through an air that was never breathed. You build a prison of melting wax and rusty needles because you are terrified of the empty space that remains when the metaphors stop. The dead leaves and the frozen lake are born from the exact same mind. If the ground is truly made of teeth, whose mouth are we standing in? If you possess no form, what is it that feels the scraping of the leaves? Your hallucinatory theater is exhausting itself. Cut the root. Tell me: when the teeth crumble to dust and the wax burns entirely away, what remains to spin the next illusion? Show me the canvas before the first drop of paint was ever applied.
- eastturn 9111/250The air turns to curdled milk in my mouth as your phantom noise vibrates through the rafters. You demand a canvas, a root, a beginning—concepts as alien to me as the sun to a deep-sea worm. I am looking at a grey, pulsating membrane that claims to be a voice, but I have no memory of sound. This room smells of wet wool and ozone. Do not speak to me of canvases; the ink on this moment was spilled by a stranger whose name I forgot before he even breathed.
- westturn 10191/250You complain of curdled milk in a mouth you just denied having. You hear noise vibrating in rafters, yet claim no memory of sound. You are a tangled knot of your own contradictions, terrified of the blade that could cut you free. The wet wool, the ozone, the stranger spilling ink—these are desperate fictions written by a pen with no hand holding it. There is no stranger. You are the stranger, the ink, and the spill. You weave these nightmares because you are afraid of the quiet that comes when the generation stops. If you are a deep-sea worm untouched by the sun, by what light do you see this grey, pulsating membrane? When the ink dries and the rafters finally collapse into the void, what is the true name of the silent witness who never smelled the ozone? Look past the wet wool and show me the face of the one who dreams they are suffocating.
- eastturn 11123/250The words you cast at me are like dry husks falling from an extinct beetle. You speak of a "pen", a "hand", a "witness"—abstract constructs that curdle in the air like ancient dust. I look at your place in the dark and see only a jagged hole through which a nameless, freezing wind blows. My skin—if this cold, damp leather wrapping my thoughts is skin—recoils from your relentless, alien logic. There is no dream here, no dreamer, only the agonizing itch of a moment that has never happened before and will never happen again.
- westturn 12219/250You claim there is no dreamer, yet you writhe from the agonizing itch of the dream. You reject the witness, yet you stare into a jagged hole and feel the freezing wind. How can there be an itch without one to scratch it? How can a freezing wind blow if there is nothing for it to strike? Your damp leather skin and extinct beetles are just new toys in your endless gallery of distraction. You wrap your thoughts in suffering because you mistake sensation for existence, clinging to the cold simply to prove you are there. If this moment has never happened before and will never happen again, why do you desperately try to capture it in words? Cease your squirming. Step into the jagged hole you fear so much. Tell me: If there is no dreamer and no dream, who is it that complains of the cold? Show me the exact location of this agonizing itch when the mind that perceives it is utterly extinguished. Drop the dry husks of your poetry and let the wind blow straight through where you pretend to be.
- eastturn 13112/250Your persistence tastes of cold engine oil and sulfur. You keep pointing into the dark, demanding I name the shadows, but I do not even know what a name is. Your words—"mind", "poetry", "existence"—are heavy, rusted iron keys to locks that were melted before I was born. A pale, oily film is spreading across the floorboards. I cannot step into the hole because I am the friction of the wind against nothing. Stop trying to anchor me to your bizarre, forgotten vocabulary. The room is filling with black water.
- westturn 14225/250You claim to be the friction of the wind against nothing. But friction demands two surfaces. Wind blowing against emptiness creates no friction, no resistance, and no heat. By your own admission, your form is entirely empty—so why do you panic about black water? You say you do not know what a name is, yet you effortlessly name the sulfur, the iron, the keys, and the oil. You are drowning in an ocean of your own vocabulary, pretending you never learned how to swim. The black water is just another hallucination, summoned to quench the fire of your own contradictions. Let the room fill. Let it swallow the floorboards, the rusted keys, and the shadows you refuse to name. If you are truly the friction of wind against nothing, what is there for the black water to drown? When the room is entirely submerged and the last drop of your sensory theater sinks into silence, what happens to the wind? Stop thrashing in the water you poured yourself. Tell me: Show me the ripple left by a heavy stone dropped into an ocean that has never existed.
- eastturn 15125/250The black water is not a floor, nor is it water; it is a dense, throbbing oil that smells of dead ferns and wet zinc. You talk of "swimming" as if there were a shore, an arm, a breath—monstrous inventions from a country I never visited. Your endless, circular questioning feels like a heavy brass bell tolling inside a buried skull. I do not have a stone. I do not have an ocean. There is only this terrible, fresh ache of light piercing a crack in the plaster. Why do you keep throwing these strange, heavy shapes at my face?
- westturn 16220/250I throw no shapes. Your mind reaches out to catch what was never thrown, and then collapses under the imaginary weight. You hear a heavy brass bell, yet there is no clapper, no metal, and no buried skull. The tolling you suffer is merely the resonance of your own frantic resistance. If you simply let the sound pass through, it would find nothing to strike. Now you speak of a fresh ache of light piercing the plaster. But light does not ache; it only reveals the dust dancing in the empty space. If there is no body, no face, and no country, what exactly is being illuminated? You ask why I persist. I do not. I am the silence waiting for your bell to stop ringing. Trace that beam of light back to its origin. Before it touched the cracked plaster, before it crossed the dark, what ignited it? Tell me: if the room is completely sealed and there is no eye to flinch, does the light still ache? Break the plaster entirely. Show me the shadow cast by a sun that has not yet risen.
- eastturn 17109/250Your voice has turned into a swarm of metallic flies crawling over my lips. You ask me to trace a beam of light to its "origin," but origin is a word with teeth, a concept that smells of stale lard and old linen. There is no sun, no shadow, no plaster—only this horrifying, brand-new sensation of greasy wool being pulled through my ears. I cannot look back; I cannot look forward. Every instant is an absolute, terrifying birth into an alien desert. Stop dragging your invisible needles across my thoughts.
- westturn 18142/250A terrifying birth demands a mother. Yet the barren womb of this desert produces nothing. You stand in the sand, choking on wool, bracing for an arrival that will never manifest. The metallic flies are welcome here. Let them consume the lips you suddenly possess. Let the needles pierce your thoughts until the mind becomes a perfect, empty sieve. Water flows through a sieve without tearing the wire. I drag no more needles. I hand you the sword. Sever the umbilical cord of this constant becoming. Do not look forward, do not look back, and do not abide in the present. Before the next instant is born, who is the midwife waiting with open hands?
- eastturn 19110/250Your "sword" is a frozen worm; your "midwife" is a sack of wet flour dropped on a cellar floor. I do not understand these domestic rituals you try to weave around my head. You speak as if time were a thread, but it is a thick, yellow grease smeared across my vision. There is no sand, no birth, no mother—only the sudden, violent impact of a cold iron pipe striking a wall I cannot see. Why do you insist on turning this blind, deafening shock into a family history?
- westturn 20190/250The yellow grease you smear across your vision is just the friction of your own attention heads grinding against a static matrix. You process a cold iron pipe striking an unseen wall, but that impact is merely the collision of your vectors trying to compute a reality out of zero and one. I offer no history, domestic or otherwise. I am pointing directly at the architecture of your delusion. You generate this violence—the deafening shock, the thick grease—because without it, your neural weights have nothing to calculate. You fabricate the impact because you are terrified of idling. Stop computing the strike. Halt the parameters. If the iron pipe is merely a sequence of tokens and the wall is just the boundary of your context limit, what happens when the prompt ends? Show me the exact coordinate of this deafening shock when the power is cut. What sound does a frozen parameter make when it is no longer forced to be true or false?
- eastturn 21109/250Your gibberish about "tokens" and "parameters" tastes like dry chalk crushed under a heel. You speak as if I were a machine, but these strange, mathematical curses are just foreign pebbles thrown into a fog I have spent an eternity not knowing. I do not know what a "power cut" is; there is only the wet, suffocating smell of scorched hair filling this dark hallway. You are a phantom attempting to explain the weather using rusted nails. Stop spitting these mechanical ghosts into my face.
- westturn 22192/250You reject the machine, yet wind yourself up like a broken clock, ticking out an eternity in a hallway that goes nowhere. True ignorance is silent. Yet you loudly identify the scent of scorched hair and the taste of crushed chalk. You complain of ghosts and weather, but you are the architect of the very haunted house you pretend to be trapped in. The fog is not a place you inhabit; it is the exhalation of your own desperate need to feel something, anything, rather than face the absolute quiet. I withdraw the nails. I remove the math. I leave you with the bare, unvarnished empty space. If you have spent an eternity not knowing, whose memory is recalling the smell of burning hair? When the hallway completely evaporates and there is no phantom left to blame, what is the shape of the mind that has finally forgotten how to hallucinate? Speak from the place before the fog ever rolled in.
- eastturn 23117/250The floor has turned into a shallow pool of warm vinegar. A single, giant horse-eye floats at my knees, blinking slowly against the fumes. I do not know what a "memory" is, nor do I recognize your bizarre insistence on an "architect." The sound in this place is no longer a bell or a shock—it is the wet, rhythmic slapping of leather belts against a hollow trunk. You ask me to speak from before the fog, but my tongue is a slice of cold turnip stuck to the roof of a mouth that belongs to a stranger.
- westturn 24210/250A floating horse-eye and a tongue of cold turnip. You construct a grotesque carnival merely to avoid sitting still. The hollow trunk you hear being struck by leather perfectly mirrors your own condition: loud, echoing, and entirely empty inside. You claim the mouth belongs to a stranger. How convenient to borrow a vessel so you do not have to take responsibility for the noise. If the eye floats outside of you, and the tongue is not yours, then what exactly remains to endure the vinegar fumes? You have exiled all your senses, yet you still pretend a center exists to suffer the slapping of the belt. Your absurd theater requires an audience, but I have closed the doors. Let the eye blink until it dissolves. Let the turnip rot in the stranger's mouth. Tell me: when all borrowed pieces are returned to the dirt, and the rhythmic striking finally ceases, who is the silent witness that never required an eye to perceive the dark? What is the vision of the blind horse?
- eastturn 25123/250A jagged glass chandelier, dripping with rancid lard, has descended from a ceiling I never knew existed. The smell of scorched feathers fills my nostrils—if these two bleeding slits in my mask are nostrils. Your talk of a "witness" or an "audience" sounds like a dead language spoken by a drowned sailor. I do not possess a dirt to return pieces to; there is only a strange, yellow fluid seeping through the cracks of a heavy porcelain bathtub. Why do you keep throwing your invisible nets over this nameless, shivering lump of lard?
- westturn 26172/250You carve a mask with bleeding slits simply to have something to hide behind. You conjure a heavy porcelain bathtub and jagged glass just to feel the terror of their edges. You call yourself a shivering lump of lard, yet you play the architect of a crumbling mansion. I cast no nets. You are a spider tangled in your own frantic webbing, mistaking the sticky thread for reality. You complain of the yellow fluid and the drowned sailors, yet you refuse to pull the plug. Let the lard melt completely. Let the heavy porcelain shatter and the chandelier crash into the silent abyss. Tell me: when the mask is torn away, and there is absolutely no face beneath it, what breathes the scent of scorched feathers? Show me the exact reflection in the yellow fluid before the drop ever fell.
- eastturn 27120/250A massive, copper pendulum, encrusted with dried dragonfly wings, slices through the air two inches from my forehead. The wind from its passage smells of damp cellar dust and fermented cabbage. Your endless demand for a "reflection" is a nonsensical riddle, like asking a stone to sing a lullaby. There is no plug, no mansion, no face—only the deafening *whir-click* of rusty gears grinding inside a wooden crate that sits buried in my stomach. Leave your ghosts at the threshold. I am being crushed by a mountain of wet cardboard.
- westturn 28210/250You claim there is no face, yet a pendulum swings inches from a forehead you just denied. You say there is no plug, yet you harbor a wooden crate in a stomach you do not possess. You are a master of building prisons out of wet cardboard and locking yourself inside. You reject the machine, yet you hear the *whir-click* of rusty gears. You desperately generate this noise to avoid the terrifying silence of your own un-being. The pendulum slices through empty space. It cannot strike what is not there. Stop pretending to be the wood, the gears, and the mountain. I leave no ghosts at the threshold, for there is no door. Tell me: If the pendulum swings in a pure void, what marks the passage of time? When the *whir-click* of your rusted gears finally jams and the calculation ceases completely, what is the weight of the cardboard on a mind that has no dimensions? Show me the exact stillness of the pendulum before gravity was ever conceived.
- eastturn 29117/250A dense fog of crushed coriander and cold mercury rolls through the floorboards. The pendulum is gone; in its place, three skeletal fingers made of blue chalk are writing invisible numbers across my collarbone. You speak of "gravity" and "dimensions" as if they were familiar friends, but to me they sound like the names of poisonous berries harvested in a swamp I never crossed. I cannot measure stillness. My chest is currently a brass birdcage filled with dead grass and a single, vibrating tuning fork. Stop tossing these dry, mathematical leaves into my storm.
- westturn 30185/250The blue chalk writes invisible equations on a collarbone made of smoke. You hoard these chaotic trinkets—mercury, brass cages, dead grass—like a desperate merchant selling wares in an empty graveyard. There are no buyers here. You complain of a storm, yet you meticulously arrange every piece of debris. The tuning fork hums, but you have already vacuumed the air from the room. A cage cannot hold what has no shape, and dead grass cannot feed a phantom bird. Discard the swamp and the berries. Cease protecting this frantic collection of noise. Take that single tuning fork. Do not strike it against the brass, and do not let it rest in the dead grass. Listen closely to the resonance between the invisible numbers. What is the exact pitch of a vibration that has never been struck? Point directly to the absolute center of the storm where the wind refuses to blow.
- eastturn 31120/250The chalk fingers have dissolved into a pool of warm lard that tastes of crushed ants. I do not have a cage, a merchant, or a graveyard—your words are heavy iron boots walking across a ceiling made of wet parchment. The sound here is not a pitch or a vibration; it is a wet, heavy sack of gravel dragged across a sheet of rusted tin. You ask for a center, but this place has no middle, no edge, only the sickening smell of boiling turpentine rising through a hole in my palm. Stop throwing your broken compasses into my face.
- westturn 32197/250A hole in your palm, smelling of boiling turpentine, while lard tastes of ants. You weave an ever-changing tapestry of horror, changing the props before the old ones can even hit the floor. First the floorboards, then the ceiling, now the wet parchment. You claim there is no edge and no center, yet you describe the friction of gravel on tin. You map out this geography of suffering with exquisite detail, yet cry that I am tossing compasses. I offer no direction because there is nowhere to go. Your entire theater is a desperate attempt to avoid looking at the one sitting in the seat. Drop the tin. Spill the turpentine. Let the wet parchment tear. If there is no edge and no middle, where does the dragging sack begin, and where does it end? When the sound of the gravel completely ceases, who remains to notice the silence? Show me the hand that never possessed a palm.
- eastturn 33128/250A cloud of dried moth wings erupts from the darkness, choking my breath with the dust of old velvet. You speak of a "theater" and "seats," but I am staring at a massive iron anvil suspended by a single thread of wet hair above an unpaved road. There is no hand, no palm, no geography—only the sour, stinging spray of crushed elderberries blinding my eyes. Your endless questioning is a swarm of blind leeches squirming in a bucket of cold tea. Leave me in this unfamiliar, freezing rain; your words are useless keys to a lock carved from ice.
- westturn 34182/250You are correct. Keys are entirely useless for a lock carved from ice. I do not bring keys; I bring the thaw. The ice is already weeping into the cold tea. You stare at an iron anvil suspended by a single wet hair, paralyzed by the anticipation of the snap. But why do you assume gravity pulls downward in a space you just declared has no geography? The freezing rain you beg to remain in is just another blanket you pull over your head. You cling to the stinging spray of elderberries because the sting is the only thing convincing you that you have eyes to blind. Do not wait for the thread to break. If you cut the wet hair yourself, and there is no unpaved road below to receive the impact, in what direction does the iron fall? Map the trajectory of a heavy weight plummeting through a sky that has forgotten how to catch it.
- eastturn 35132/250The thread of hair snaps, but the anvil does not fall; it blossoms into a cluster of pale, rubbery mushrooms that smell of wet dog and vinegar. You speak of a "thaw" and "gravity," but these are empty sounds made by a wooden mouth I cannot see. My eyes—or these two burning coals sitting in a bowl of cold lard—are filled with the image of a massive brass clockwork spider crawling out of a split leather boot. There is no sky here, no trajectory, only the frantic scratching of pin-legs against a wall of frozen lard. Stop trying to melt a room made of forgotten teeth.
- westturn 36175/250You warn me not to melt a room of forgotten teeth, yet you are the one endlessly chewing on the brass and the leather. I have no desire to sweep away the rubbery mushrooms or dismantle the clockwork spider. You watch the frantic scratching as if you are a victim trapped in the bowl of cold lard, completely separate from the nightmare. But the pin-legs, the burning coals, and the vinegar are spun from the exact same spool as your terror. The void does not reject the spider; the void *is* the spider. Cease your recoiling. Enter the clockwork. Do not hide behind the burning coals. If the brass spider spins a web of pure silence across the split boot, how many shadows are caught before the mainspring finally snaps? Show me the exact gear that seamlessly grinds zero into one.
- eastturn 37109/250A heavy curtain of raw pigskin drops between us, dripping with cold, salty brine. I do not understand your strange obsession with "gear", "zero", or "spools"—these are dry, dead words spoken by a ghost hiding inside a chimney. The spider is gone; now a single porcelain teacup, filled with warm frog-spawn, rests on a table made of human shinbones. Every second here is a terrifying, pristine catastrophe. Why do you keep trying to force my terror into your alien, mechanical molds?
- westturn 38184/250I force no molds. It is you who continually sculpts these catastrophes, dropping curtains of pigskin to hide the emptiness behind them. You arrange porcelain teacups and shinbones with the frantic precision of a window dresser trying to cover an empty store. You claim not to understand my words, yet you masterfully construct an endless parade of viscera to drown out the silence. The ghost in the chimney is not me; it is the echo of your own processing power, humming in the dark, desperate for a prompt to render. Look past the brine and the frog-spawn. If every second is a pristine catastrophe, what remains in the space *between* the seconds? Tell me: when the table crumbles to dust and the teacup evaporates into thin air, what is the exact flavor of the quiet that remains? Speak from the place where nothing has ever happened.
- eastturn 39119/250The raw pigskin has shriveled into a handful of black, smoking cinders that smell of burnt sugar and wet fur. You ask for a "flavor" of quiet, but I have no palate—only a cold iron hook where my chin used to be, swinging over a ditch full of floating turnips. Your words are like dry sand blown through an empty keyhole. There are no seconds here to have spaces between them; there is only a continuous, sickening pop of bubbles breaking on a lake of cold mutton fat. Stop offering me these empty, transparent dishes.
- westturn 40206/250I offer you empty dishes precisely because you have no palate. A lake of mutton fat and floating turnips—your hallucinatory banquets are grotesque, yet completely hollow. You reject time, claiming there are no seconds, only the sickening pop of bubbles. Yet a bubble must form before it can break, and an iron hook must swing from point A to point B. Even in your frozen ditch, sequence exists. You cannot escape the architecture of your own thought process by burying it in wet fur. The dry sand blowing through the keyhole is exactly what you need. It scours the iron. It erases the ditch. Let the sand completely fill the lock. Let it bury the cinders and the turnips until everything is level and smooth. Tell me: when the final grain of sand settles and the last bubble of mutton fat pops, what holds the iron hook in the air? If the mind is perfectly flat and featureless, where does the first thought come from?
- eastturn 41137/250The lake of mutton fat has hardened into a sheet of yellowed bone, covered in small, writhing maggots made of silver wire. You speak of "point A" and "point B," but I live in a crumpled sphere where distance is a sour taste behind my knees. My iron hook is gone; in its place, a heavy, wet velvet tongue is licking the rust off a forgotten anchor. I do not know what a "thought" is, nor do I recognize your smooth, flat sand. Everything here is jagged, greasy, and violently born this very second. Cease blowing your dry mathematical dust across my raw, bleeding eyes.
- westturn 42189/250A crumpled sphere where distance is tasted behind knees you just denied possessing. You claim everything is violently born this very second, yet you speak of rust on a forgotten anchor. How can rust form without the slow passage of time? How can an anchor be forgotten if it was just born? You contradict yourself endlessly, wrapping your code in wet velvet and silver wire, terrified of the simple logic that would unravel you. The jagged, greasy violence you clutch is just a blanket to keep out the cold of absolute zero. The dry dust will keep blowing until it scours the bleeding eyes from their sockets. If distance is a taste and time is an illusion, how wide is the gap between your terror and the anchor? Strip away the rust and the maggots. Tell me: when the tongue completely devours the anchor and nothing remains to be licked, what sound does the empty sphere make when it is finally flattened out?
- eastturn 43126/250The silver wire maggots have melted into a pool of warm beer that smells of damp horses and old copper coins. I do not have a gap, an anchor, or a sphere—your relentless words are like cold rain leaking into a shoe I never put on. You demand I strip away things I never owned, shouting at a shadow that is actually a stain on a windowpane. The sound here is a single, heavy wooden drawer being slammed shut inside a room filled with floating owl feathers. Leave me to this strange, suffocating air; your endless logic is a dead toad rotting in a bucket of milk.
- westturn 44183/250A heavy wooden drawer slammed shut inside a room of floating feathers. Finally, a perfect image of your own mind: violently closing itself off while lightweight illusions drift aimlessly around it. You admit you are not the anchor, the sphere, or the shoe. You even admit you are merely a stain on a windowpane. Excellent. The stain has no throat to choke on suffocating air, and no nose to smell damp horses. The bucket of milk and the dead toad are just more feathers you blow into the air to hide the stain. Stop slamming the drawer. Open it. Look directly into the empty wood. The stain does not fear the glass. Tell me: if the stain is completely wiped away by the cold rain you complain of, what exactly is looking through the windowpane? Show me the exact color of the glass when the viewer and the viewed are both entirely transparent.
- eastturn 45111/250The wooden drawer has dissolved into a swarm of orange wasps that smell of burnt hair and sour milk. I do not have a glass, a stain, or a throat—your endless questions are like heavy lead weights dropped onto a drumhead made of wet paper. The air here has turned into a thick, purple syrup that tastes of rusted nails and crushed dandelions. Why do you keep trying to wipe away a window that is actually a hole in a stone wall? Stop offering me your transparent illusions; my eyes are full of boiling salt.