Some doing, is all it takes. A little dying, a diet of lying, and wordless abandon to the strands of thin light playing against the glass. Medicine to begin and end another one night sanguine stand in the sunkissed sand. Manual time, borrowed from a terribly broken watch. A certain number of steps and the grand secret of seductive grief.
Then the process complexifies and tends to vary, night-to-night. Last night, it was a sort of retrocausally prophetic stage play, my own shadow portraying young death himself. The day prior had been deliberately drenched in whiskey, too much, but enough to mine a well-founded fear and its accompanying abject terror. I was still in the late-stage dry blitz, slightly dizzy, and made much worse with my newly minted nightmare laid bare. Then the light ceased dancing and the room ceased to be.
“That’s really sweet,” says one patient to the other, “but the second you fall in love, a fate worse than death is on the table. I’m not wrong.”
The basis of the current application is adaptation.
I first made note of Dali’s method in 2017, but it never appeared to be practically useful until I came home and started digging through websites instead of books.
In a windowless room yesterday, a nearly pristine green notebook opened for the first time in seven years.
What’s your favorite memory which you’re not certain was real?
Who cares for the person you care for most, as much as you do?
Has anyone ever broken your heart without knowing your name?
When did you last look into the mirror and see something beautiful looking back?
Would you see something impossible if you looked behind you right now?
What’s the last dream to make you feel bad in a way you couldn’t understand?
What’s the idea you had? You know the one.
Is there anything you love so much that you never need to think about it?
When you laugh so hard that your eyes close, what color do you see?