The bottle had no message had no cork had no color had no had no water to float in only suffering to see right through it and on towards the barfed up empty canvas a tasteless wafer thin portion of the world eating itself with every crunching of the dry wind the bottle rolled rolled over sand time had no patience for what was trying to re-enter slowly slowly less than slowly less than that less than that broken pieces of unidentifiable things what is there what is not there nothing is looked at trash hills to be glazed over accumulated by what had to have in a thick scum layer of ought to be dumped.
Nuts brittle on a small branch with sharp spines castrating the air cloudy with dust curling over dull refuse parts and shreds of tangles and confusions misused baggage lost on carton flow stacks of the drab rollers spinning lobes of evaporated flat vision screening out filters and more unidentifiable things what is there what is not there nothing is looked at trash hills to be glazed over accumulated by what had to have in a thick scum layer of ought to be dumped.
Continuing with the infected area natural or so it seems natural to what exactly naturally purple that is what things unidentifiable things look like when they change to purple as well as other muted shades of silence where so much decaying into each other bumps into all aspects of everything every unidentifiable thing bumping and turning against each other smudging ashen purple the makeup of the inanimate. Always old. The world was always old shelved in the assisted living corner of one of the bottom tier universes shitting on itself.
- Max Stoltenberg