"The dishonest quality of dreams is really no less mentiric than the texture and material of what you call air and rub between thumb and index finger in pretentious instances of recursively reflexive lucidity." I was about to turn down the dusty radio knob of the little machine protruding precariously from my window ledge (unfortunately I wondered which reality that kitsch box had been procured or borrowed from), but in one of those chasms that splits a second in two I paused uneasily with my mouth open and my hand in the air: what if the space between my wrist and the radio was fluid instead? So I continued to listen. The voice, or what was left of it after the static further abstracted its sound texture, was monotonous and flowery, winding around itself in intricate decorative spirals which further complicated my susceptible thought patterns, and my still naked day.

I was ready to fall into any rhythm, any artistic or emotional gimmick, only to reconcile myself repeatedly to the fact that whatever material I encountered was still air to me, and the jaded dictor's words- lucid dust.

"÷.are exacting models of the snapshots stored in your different perception centers, which accumulate over waking reality. Of course this either means that perception centers in the brain are infinite and can self-sufficiently recreate any reality, or at least there are enough of them to decipher the entire spatial plane at hand. This could just as easily mean that the spatial plane of your waking reality can easily be confined into the parameter selection of your perception, and thus be as valid (or invalid) as any other spatial plane."

How many idiots in this building were sitting with at least an ear glued to this guy, eyes glazed over with an almost erotic stupor, lips parted, unconsciously counting something like iambs in his text, though otherwise they might not be listening to a word he was saying? Then again, I had yet to determine whether this box, which (there again, I slammed the palm of my hand to restart its power supply) died and resurrected at will, was obtained from here or there, if I listened to the same thing that they listened to, before I could go off and make a vicious generalization like that.

Those exacting models, the ones I would sometimes confuse with each other, and take the angle of someone's inner elbow in a yellowish house glow, part of that world, looking at it when I had been a woman, having each component of that image extrapolate to form its own context, and one of a world that never existed though that angle, I'm sure, had÷ those models could never have been origins for either this object or the next. I picked up the radio box, as far as it would go on the cord binding it to the wall. I looked at a path name to determine its origin, I was working in a world of ether and had no claim on a share in the material of space, unless it was symbolic or entirely virtual, but the origin never seemed to connote a place any longer.