The sensation is when one drifts while reading, the eyes scanning lines of the page but the mind elsewhere entirely, so when one snaps back to the black and white reality between thumb and forefinger they find a page owed to themselves. However, lost completely in this state, no trigger awakens reality and removes the entity from this dreamlike dimension carefully dissolving cultural memes and social graces. It, apparently sexless but recognisable in form, is less interested in the narrative being followed than what holds ahead suspended from the cosmos and informed by his desires.
A passion for jocolatte swarms the mouth now as muggy saliva. It blinds the eyes, deafens the ears and makes mute the entity who becomes a singularly tactile being. Sensual material graces the forearm, bristling the hair, each one an antennae absorbing by osmosis the intention of the connection, and each refining the thoughts of the entity to desire purified. The tongue, as long as the body and barbed at the end, uncurls from within the skull to attach to the substance which becomes molten on touch. Dripping, becoming slowly lost, the entity chooses to remember than chase and tenderly revives his head.
The senses enliven to a purr and fetishes bubble to the surface as if for the last time. As vivid as the Universe observed by God but too distant to touch, her eyes reflect the entities being like lights warning of a turn in the road. Those of a cat, naughty and hungry, the eyes reveal nothing of her but everything of the entity, its every secret and festered desire. The will is freely submitted and the body slips into subservience, and consequently the entity becomes a mode nobler than that it serves. It has created perfection and laid itself at her feet as superior and inferior, as Samson did for his Delilah.
A fervour remains after awakening to reality. A neighbour’s tuba warned of his slip into fantasy, an occurrence more frequent now with age, and he counts the pages trundled over by invested, unrestrained imagination. "More so than ever", he whispers to himself, “I fall in love too easily”, and he closes the book without marking the page he last read. To his left his neighbour follows a Jazz record, playing the compliment as brass bass, until the needle clicks for the end and in time to a solo. It lasts until dusk, a smooth rolling timbre carrying the last moments of life in it’s arms like a mother carrying her first born home from the hospital.