Excerpt: Varietals: tell me something

Sometimes, a whisper.

Right now, she is residing in a house, supple limbs and bright, bright shades of green. Grass with blades. Misconceptions. Can feel the world quivering, like a skittish creature, like piano keys that waver in the air, the tremoring of violins as their strings are brushed by careless hands, straining. Everything is blurred: a myriad of colours and smearing, vibrant sounds. Somewhere, nowhere, people. She can taste the hurried, frantic sentences. The words. The -

Body clicking, whirring, she reaches - is this - and stalls, frozen. Fingertips about to brush the edges of life. Pupils too dilated, too feverishly bright against the scenery before her, too wide, wide, wide. Unmoving. Hearing the echoes of the dead, feeling the smooth, disjointed philosophies of those who - Then, there is nothing but the static of waves. A pulse. Delicate, like glass. She doesn’t breathe, saturated with what it is like to be here. There. Floorboards instead of concrete, grass instead of sand. Tactile, the charge in the atmosphere, the humidity, the sense of [it is raining, in a place far away.].

And, she can remember, something.

There is no smile. Just, fragments left behind: splinters and remainders of remainders. The urge of, the urge. To connect the pieces, what little there is, and find something. Perhaps, human. The metal casing resembles the colour of everything, flowing over her skin like plastic, hardened and formed and as of yet a stoic, silent white. No fingernails. No nerves. The pads of each lack marking, prints to prove that she is truly - this might be the first sensation, only she will never know it, only she -