VII.
Ocean's sounds. I was struggling to understand where I was. I could feel my head, and my body on a lukewarm suface. It had a pleasant recline but somewhat hardened innards. Must be the backseat of a car. And the car was moving swiftly. Whether it was crossing by a beach, I could not know. There was a blindfold tied around my eyes. And a constant buzz in my ears. And a blunt numb on my head, a constant screeching inside it. As I shifted the weight slightly, I could feel a sticky hardened and threatened to croak. Blood must have dried up. My hands were like an electric eel, with bezoft rope holding firmly. A pain ringing and echoed. Helplessly, I tried not thinking of assailants or the driver and a person beside the driverseat that I could sense. There might even be someone beside me. Sitting pretty and dead like exhumed Nefertiti. And cunt must have used deodorants too. And used it so contractively that neither stench nor aroma could be made out. I should think about my tied-up hands instead. Are they dead already? Not of headless horse, the roof of this car is dead matter. Does dead mean end of threat? If you plucked a head all teeth-bared against the direction, you would surely end up with dental trauma, a headskin detached from the bones even. And even though I am aware of my arrest, does not disclose my state having jumped that nauseating clamour of dying, are men any less indifferent as nature? Here I am with lack of carbolic acid yet. When I am in fact a victim of these clandestine people. Whacks to the headback are not all the same. There is a possibility of going hypertrepenation. And... I still cannot reason onto whether it was because of situation with which I was involved. These dudes werely almost evident of an eaterinfrantry of the food chain. Me meeting the commandandy of them is perhaps wrought for this packet of events. And I was at no luxury of being a dog that tears the packet apart. To snarl at it with venomous contempt all the while— I can feel the carspeed dying down, as when a passage through a passage to an encampment closure. Soon it came to a holt. First the right then the left. Door opened and mine too. I was jacked by the two guys by the arms and made to walk through what seemed to be concrete. Is it too outlandish for these guys or their other brethren to run a towed person by that concrete? Tonight was a night I remained blissfully ignorant, for I was being walked in relatively soothed manner. I was not being to relaxed by this behaviour but more on the contrary. What could be the use bringing me blood headead where I could not wish to be in a million years? I was walking well for someone with plasmalet scab formations on the head. I felt like I was entering a trapezium of shadow. A very low ceiling in the sheer geometry on the place. The reason I felt it was a lowimposing ceiling is not instinctual lack of breathspace (was not by an instinctual lack of breathing space), more on the contrary: it felt like the space was jockied up with conditioner and ventilators at effective points. The main reason was I could sense a strange sensation, which I deducted into layfruit of light's positions therein. Like freckles of Orpheus. I passed a doorlog just now. Court of Hades this must be? Not into its juggural hip but of a constricted hallway fettered of sphere. Notice: porcupine rapines. Gobbling and gobbling through it I pushed into its magorial limit. Beauty spots tick marked. I could sense the lichtfield of it so palpably that the scornings of my captors started to matter less and less. The leader is talking: "Drop your repeater". " But sir, I am about to drop my head altogether", I mumbled internally. And the pain of my hurthead started to rumble very hopefully. There's like a gambit of death. By which I come alive again. And then he: the little mauser, he's talking. I am caught in the elaboration of his speech; does he hold the rit? On the stark bleeder of his skull is fragarantecsence. My hoodlums might not see it but I do. Am absolved in the hook of perdition. I am axeled therein. I look onto people and from them I extract the fractured corotide. That what never the other victims grasped. They do not know, about the lux populi in their heads. Not the waverywobblwoe that's in their heads. For whom does the scant lamentation. In each's headlight are the dropes of my salvation. My hoodlums think I am a degenerate killer. One who spasms from the ecstacy of murder. That I expunge night in their throats to cherish the fading cencession. Pitiable fools. How wrong they are! For I don't even do as much as murder but merely gaze on their luxwaysm. The "victims" are the ones liable. Rather, their lux populi. When the humpteenth level of their luxwaysm rise it fries their coroticbiomes. It draws a molten cascade. The experiences of their being-there is not so laxative but their hencemenoscules are wavery wobbles. Like a deer caught in the lightspecks and the onsurging cavalcades they pull through. And the indifference, or convergence or even fright of the driver cannot be liable for the deer whose mother foreseen its kid to shed there its haberdashery of flesh and bones. With the truck approaching what the deer sees is not an incremental orb but an entire palette of the whiteness of doom. A regionlocked proverb says that spiltpalette of whiteness of doom situates above an endless panorama of an ocean. What succumbs the deer to open its fleshstock is not the sheer, unmodulating whiteness all around. Yes, it's indeed the freezesneeze trauma that the whiteness causes. Of an ocean so fucking unadulterated in its morbid intensity. The deer, like my victims does not make out the ocean's fine lines, smeared textures, jaded hums. The bastard lux populi steaming from the nauseatingly apathetic ocean does neither. That wall of bitter whiteness is the bastard of the sun and corroded holes as if. Is pulsating clamour of whitenoise not so frightening as a blanket of pitched rotation of blackness? It's more so rather. Being subjected to nauseating whitebluntblindness is ten times worse than the fate of a blind person who has reconciled with his shadowfiend darkness. The whiteblindness stocks on— what in the... The mauser blows an intensity of smirks in a most inscrutable way. Not to say he is laughing like a madman inside but something seems off... And then he: He, the haul of hoodlums, does not seem to know about what I am. I could not read his mind entirely but I bet he thinks he is proud of his faculties. He does not know that my swollen head is swelling of a cryptic discharge. There was a lather on my sinuscracked skull. There was no longer pastes of plasmalets haggling about, but an argent hole in their place. It was swapping to a black whole. The black whole then starts to tend to a pending-echoed. Slowly and slowly it herds. And it brings many images to my mind. That rusty eyed sailor, the degenerate cousin of frogs- the hermit, the vanquished lantern man, the beach mother and her kharga, the stuckbleeder Amaravati... Hmm... The image is screaming, the image of Amaravati. I remember there was a woman who fell off in the tracks and bestowed her fleshness to a deaddrunk lorry. She did not know if she was a deer in the deadlight, or if she had fatethered to cloudwings. Who scribed her lux populi!? She was only walking. She stopped scarcely but she was not hastying. Rather it was near-total dissociation with the material world. She was no deer, even literally. She was only walking till she was not. She did not feel any impact. She did not know, or cared to know, what was her impactomite. And when her body was colouring the streets with grimy red, she was still walking. Walking and walking. The clouds shed tears and they fell laterally as to make stairway to the sky. She was walking and the song of her walking nudged twigs and small branches, and then their petals fell and slept on their hinges... ... ...No! I cannot give in to her song just now. There will be much to give away if I die before following her footsteps.
Funtitled #54
Souvenirs du temps passé I / আল্লাহ আমায় জ্ঞান দাও ২০২৬