...yes ...what to say... I'm not sure I get it, but that's probably because there is nothing to understand, it's poetic, maybe beyond logic. A brother sleeping with his sister...
Who are the little people (last sentence), ichtms?
you have tried to make tales
i forgot the qustion mark 
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The absence of recollections stored away in a small zip lock bag.
...
We found ourselves sitting on an empty flatbed railroad car moving gracefully through hot Brautigan country. The diesel engine making a shy speed of fifteen miles per hour. Its overhead lights crackling like a crazy hen. The mist rising off the rolling hills and behind us were not morning although we were straining to pick up what ever sign there could be. Below us the wheels hammered out the Morse code of steel and sweat in memory of every navvy that laid these tracks, a-bumpti-bum a-bumpti-bum-bum-bum a-bumpti-bumpti-bum-bum, a hum so hypnotic we missed the first light and almost choked on its purity once the glory hit us full force. Shaken to the brink of nausea we quickly gathered up what few things we carried with us and jumped off the car and landed without injures on the bank and took refuge under a single chestnut tree.
-Funny morning, I said and blew out some dust and inhaled a lungful of chestnut inspired air.
-Mornings are always funny, Germaine said and then added.
-Most mornings are!
-This one sure was a funny one, I replied in ernest.
It was a very long train but as the last car lumbered by and took the bumpti-bum-bum-bum with it it wasn't long before another rhythm took its place and a quick glance beyond the grassy knoll on which the chestnut tree was sitting gave us the answer.
-Ah, isn't it magnificent?
-It sure is!
-Beats most funny mornings.
-And the way it smells!
It's warming coming from English speaking people. Writing is hard work save for the few random paragraphs that seem to pop up with some strange irregularity...
The ocean, in all its horizontal tallness, cast its gaze upon our senses and walked right in! Faintly I registered the fragments of a moaning, put the pieces together and caught Germaine just a fraction of a thought before she'd gone too far inside herself to fully come back as herself. Frantically I looked a question at her.
"Don't worry!" she said, "I'm still the same. Look! See!" she said and guided my fingers across the map of her face; a map more detailed than reality. I felt the calm return inside me. Her hand gently brushing against the reality of myself; the broken glass; the assault on my senses finally in recession.
Peering inside what's been closed up for decades. Like a house robbed of its depth and compressed to distorted images and sounds so thin they're almost completely gone and only visible when held against a clear bright background. Memories upon memories sinking back from my grasp. The codes withering away. The electricity so diluted that the light can not but flicker at random. Pages upon pages glued to each other so the words no longer are
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Yellow cabs sitting by the side of the road for so long they've been deserted, worn down, sandblasted, buried in debris. The milestones of pch carried off in the sunshine and stored away in damp cellars dug into the memory of the Castle of Lost Angeles
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The ocean is big out here but the sky is bigger. It's like a dome built by bricks made from centuries. And generations of retired brick layers sit in their rocking chairs on their wooden porches while the old wife is inside making pancakes with maple syrup, corn bread with boiled potatoes and cool homebrewn beer to make it easier to swallow and there she is. She's old but she's holding up better than you'd think. Brick layers are tough people but their wifes are the toughest wifes there is out here. This brick layer is finally putting down his book, takes off his glasses and I holler from a distant.
-Sir!
The brick layer looks up and spots me standing just outside his piece of land. The wife does the same.
-Yes, my son. Say the brick layer and the wife nods and smiles.
-Sir, can I ask you a question or two?
The brick layer gets out of his chair and as he walks off the porch onto his front yard he motions to me that it's okay to come onto his property.
-Good morning, Sir! I say and reach out and shake the brick layers hand.
-Good morning, and please don't 'Sir' me, I'm Benjamin, and this is my wife, Chloé.
-Please to meet you Benjamin, I'm Nameless and this is my sister, Germaine.
-Please to meet you Chloé, Germaine says.
-Likewise, says Benjamin and Chloé. Please to meet you. We were just about to have a little meal out here on our porch. Would you like to join us?
After that. The day progressed very slowly. We ate and drank and Benjamin told me about the cellars while Chloé went inside with Germaine to do something about our lack of food. When we finally left them it was already dusk. There should be another train passing within the next hour so after the good bye's and all that we steered our noses toward the railway.
It felt much better now when we had rucksacks full of food on our backs. Chloé had dragged them down from the attic when we'd already left and come running after us. But we hadn't come very far. It feels good to know there are good folks around to look after the land with all that people so suddenly gone. Like they all had disappeared through holes in time that one day just appeared and almost everyone had looked inside, gone too far to realize they were as brittle as soap bubbles.
"These are fine rucksacks", said Germaine and smiled.
"They sure are", I said.
Instead of just waiting for the train we just went on walking when we reached the tracks because there was something about them that didn't let you be still. You just had to keep moving whether you wanted it or not and that was what we did in any type manner that we could think of. It wasn't until the next morning that it dawned on us that the rails had somehow picked up old radio music shows way back when Duke Ellington was the highest roller on the coast and retained them in the metal surface as though the train had acted as a recording device but what it was that picked up these invisible gems and allowed us to hear them I am at a loss to even begin to explain. Man! You should've been there! The relentless beat. The talking horns. The sweet voice of Ivie Anderson eating into our minds, entering every crevice that was even there; creating the rhythm from the rhythm itself, hypnotizing...
...
We had gone far and seen no sign of another. The tracks had ended at a dried out river but the music had by then already faded away. We were on the outskirts of an urban area. The horizon was a jagged edge. Scattered before us lay a myriad of crippled tv sets. The ground had shifted so many times in so many ways that pieces of the streets stood erected like tomb stones; but there were no names on them. The only discernible movement was the tumbleweeds and their endless circular drift.
In the shade under a highway overpass we retreated from the light of the day and the peculiar wind that only seemed to affect the tumbleweeds; not the tall red grass like trees, not the searing heat of the immobile sun, not the high white clouds. Advancing into the rich contents of our rucksacks we lost interest in the surroundings and concentrated on chasing away the churning hunger that by now had overcome us; there were sandwishes to the left and the right, with vegetables still as fresh as the minute they were separated from their beds, bread rich with fibers and almost bursting with energy and the love with which they had been baked, slices of garlic salami so thin they melted like butter upon biting into these creations, cool dark pilsner traveled into us and spread within us a feeling of utter contentment, homemade fudge and butter cookies laced with chocolate assaulted us while containers of hot coffea opened up before us and filled us with a warmth that finally took the toll on us, sinking us in the sea of sleep.
...
I shouldn't be awake but I am. It's late at night but it doesn't look like night. It's a bright day and the immobile sun is sitting high on the sky but the searing heat doesn't affect me. I feel cold. I look back towards the highway overpass and though it's dark in there I can make out vague contours of a sleeping person.
"It's your nameless brother," the black wooden box tells me.
"Why is he nameless?" I ask. But the black wooden box is silent and after... I return to myself to continue with the creation of my story.
...
Further away the horizon is melting ice floes drained of color but the image is rapidly deteriorating as gusts of wind tear at the foundation that holds the sun in place. It falls over and crash and goes out without a bang or a spark. The curtain closes and a sign drops out of the sky that says there was a power failure and I turn my head back very slow to catch a last glance of the past and satisfied that there was a past back there I crouch down, close my eyes and rests my head in my hands, counting to 8 as time roars forward, before I resume control of my senses and acts upon the impulse to abandon all hope
...
The black wooden box falling behind me as I climb over the skeletal remains of the foundation that held the sun in place. In my mind a simple word repeating itself; mirrors, mirrors, mirrors...
Beautiful. Your imagery is amazing; rich and emotive. "It speaks to me in silent splendor..."
Thanks!
Your "bio" wasn't too long, btw.
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And that's what we, who looks, see; not only when we want to but all the time and with no regards as to if it's on or off or what it is that is on or off. We see and we are seen and suddenly the story shatters in so many pieces that it's useless to count them but we try anyway and then we understand that it's useless and that's when we stop to just see, and look, and look at the sea of stories that whirl around us like perfect mirrors and how they change, as they fly, into a stage upon whose floor a drama is taking place in real time and the audience is the authors and the authors loses focus and disappears in thoughts as the right words refuses to appear to the writer and a message appears in symbols that only can translate to; enter code and password; and the writer can only, and the writer can only, and the writer can only repeat himself to himself or to you who is its reader, not only now but before you even came this far and how the words gather strenght for just another attempt on your imagination
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That's where we are; you and me; reader and writer
...
Back inside the past the writer wanders in circles, questioning himself about the vague description he's given of his principal characters.
-"Who are they?"
-"Now that's a good question!" The writer shouts.
-"So?"
-"So what?" The writer bites back, somewhat nervous about where the story is going or rather where it's not going. Well, somewhat nervous might be to put it mildly; talk about detours!
-"Where is it supposed to take place? The story I mean?"
-"Northern California."
-"Why's that?"
-"Don't really know but that's where Sacramento is somewhere."
-"Oh."
-"I hope it's there anyway."
-"It's in California."
-"Well, it's not that big of a deal. They're not that good at geography anyway."
-"Yeah, sure!"
-"I should get back now, it's been nice talking to you!"
-"Yeah, thanks."
-"Yeah!" The writer busies himself while surreptitiously watching the reader slowly walking away and after a while disappear into the text, as though it was possible.
...
Back at the control board the writer grabs the story and puts it into gear and is immediately gone
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mirrors, mirrors, mirrors... These words sprawling within my imaginative walls of crimson solitude. Let me tell you who I am. I am Germaine. If you just close your mind to all that is bland you will see me wrapping my celestial body around the curves of space and time... mirrors, mirrors, mirrors... I'm dreaming, I say to myself, as I leave you there under the highway overpass. Free to rest, forever rest in nameless peace, in the warmth of stars, in aeons yet to pass... mirrors, mirrors, mirrors... Brother, you are safe. I will return with the door. It will open to everything. The transformation that is taking place here is greater than us all. It seemed like a desert but it's alive, breathing. The door will open to it. I can feel it's here. The door is here. It's opening; extending beyond the power of light; hinting of something that is stronger than the light and though nothing can be stronger than the light the light dim and give way to something that is larger... mirrors, mirrors, mirrors... I'm going through the door. Stay here
... I, the nameless man, was still sound asleep when all this happened... It... It all went through the door and nobody ever looked back until it was too late... Doesn't mean that anyone didn't try but it would have been futile; even the thought of it, futile; these words trying to describe it, futile...
Moving on with the flow of the river of unfolding events obliterating every image of an alternative future; the compass is destroyed; the direction is fixed; a point on the horizon...
The nameless man, awakening from fiction, opens its/my eyes and lifts its/my head just a little to scan around, but the light blinds him/me and he/I steer his/my gaze into the perpetual twilight that hides here under the highway overpass, but he/I can't see nothing and he/I close his/my eyes again and go back into fiction and let the light flame up in his/my dream and he's/I'm its captive as he/I fade away...
... I, I know who I am. I have known it all along... I was just a dream in Germaine's imagination; I'm nameless because she didn't know that I could exist outside of her; I miss her so much it hurts to maintain these lies that I exist, I don't exist
... I, I know who I am. I have known it all along... I was just a dream in my own head. I wasn't nameless; I was multitudes. The ink of my imagery could never dry. There was always transformations taking place and some of them I wasn't even aware of; I left only to return. My face was never the same. The mirrors was programmed via remote control; I caught only shadows when I tried to find the people who were behind it. Time would disappear and there would be strange burn patterns coming and going as though the world was alive. I would wake up and hear like a faint echo from some place I never could conjure up and as I was falling back into sleep I'd suddenly be wide awake, startled by a thunder of voices... I, I know who I am. I have known it all along... I was just a head in my own dream; whirling in weightlessness through storms of sickening colors and lights, feeling like I was slowly being compressed by an invisible force working from within my head; the digging, the watery smell, the disintegration of certain words, the shapelessness, the nauseating panic of something that would always remain at the brink of being uncovered, and the constant fear of fear itself amalgamated with the horror of being completely conscious while the beast of reality bend open your mind to inject you with frozen rivers
...
I turn back to destroy what I can not save... A fireball builds throughout the universe...
...
At the last junction before the endless forest of mirrors Germaine and the nameless man reappears. For a while they just stand there, taking in the whole atmosphere of roads. They close their eyes and start dancing to the echoes of all the wanderers that came and went; the scratching of soles against the asphalts howling blue face, and the random noises of bodies in motion, and the dust of dreams
...
They went down the least travelled road while everything done was made undone; while the longest day slowly came to its end; while the eternal fires grew visible as they cast their curling flames against the pacific sky... And they knew who they were as they strolled safely inside each others dream...
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Words, words started to form and time went... And time came... And time; the bits crumbled, forgot where they came from, looked back, no it's not. No I'm not. It's! And it is! Yes, it is... Vision split in length with... It is and it is is it. Yes, it's... You can not ask...
Enter the Ashen King; withering...
Ears pressed up against the brickwall... A Mile thick; what's in there, what does it say... Will it come out and as what... My name is doors. I house clothes... And they drip from... It is name and it is a bifurcation... Yes, listen to the, the ear knows my name hides within the ink of nights...
I should have known... It was my child and it was small like raindrops on a hot slab of stone; the sound off-on-off, No, it was not... I was skeleton and mirrors, where was mirrors; down in that abyss, those eyes that had seen so much that eyes should not see... It could not be but it was... It was me and I wore my clothes... Yes, it was my clothes... They had no right to touch me. Keep your filthy thoughts off my face. I will!!! Yes, I will... It is death and it is the words... I have to stay calm... Keep your filthy thoughts to yourself. I will!!! Yes, I will... It is metal and it is cold with words... Oh, it is so cold in these words... I filter... But I filter and it has to go back with words... Ever...
The frightful stage chews at my feet... Ever with me; the Ashen King... Mud slung at and laughing and and ever with and I'm so afraid and I'm so and I wish I could but I can't and I must but I won't and I will and then I will and then it is over... Over... Yes, it is over
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And it's only the first sound that comes out of the open
and it is so small that nobody notices it and the leave without knowing what they missed out on just because they didn't know how to listen. The words unscribe themselves and goes on strike. The writer reacts with a lockout. Then sits in his lonely old kitchen and sulks and smokes home made cigarettes of third class tobacco. All for Nicotine!!! The writer will pull through, he says...
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