The fall would feel like a dream the way death or news of death feels like a dream. It uses what our unconscious teaches us, how to cope with death as it’s happening. If the wind blows, if I fall from the ridge, I have a couple seconds to reason, this is just a dream. What happens after doesn’t matter. Anyway, existence is the drug of the dead.
I am a woman in an earnest crown of mountains, doused in water, lying down. Milky streaks pump in the opal of Moon, shrill rods of light into the eyelid. Genes shriek across the vast expanse of space. Moonlight on the mountain.
Under the dark dress of the void, I murder dozens of strangers and use fire to get rid of what I’ve done. Imagine: all deep body cringes of the past, exiled by fire. I found a lighter, lit a blanket. Blanket of uncivilized behavior. In calm noon the identities of my victims are not important as much as action and reaction; how does one deal with a purse of seconds, ticking in a wind tunnel, on top of a ledge, the air jellied by flowers? The answer: jump into the water. The cold won’t kill you.