You enter a seemingly endless field of visible darkness– it flares, blips, and coats the plethora of fauna and organic matter; with each burst of blackness, you can discern the ever present radiation of language forcing itself on reality. Confined to islands of internment, each bush, tree, and rose and vine-stalk pulsate with a living urgency. Gazing out over the vast, desolate landscape, your senses play tricks on you and lines your emotions with the unmistakable feeling that you have lost something dear and precious. You feel small, then large, like with every step you take you are transmogrified into obscene shapes and sorts.
Wandering the landscape is the disembodied… husks, bulbous, they are a cross between elephants and mass-graves and alien to your phenomenology; these are the strained affectations of the forlorn. Floating in the same manner of Jellyfishes, they aimlessly wander the landscape. But, these are peaceful; whether you should concern yourself with these dead and gone shapes and their attendant misery, is up to you.
Hewed into the ground behind and between fauna installations are deep trenches; the bottom of each is wet and muddy but indistinct, like a patchy gray. It is easy to step over these lines of demarcation, though it is tempting to explore their mysteries as shiny artifacts coating the bottom of the trenches call to you with their glimmering twinkling.
You hear the patter of rain in the distance. Somehow you know that you must make your way to where it rains. You walk on to the rain place, but as you cross the landscape you encounter another entity: perhaps female, though you cannot tell definitively as it is cloaked in heavy garb, it carries a short sword a sub-machine gun. It simply looks at you.
At this time, a burst of irradiated language comes into being and all around you is inscribed.
[“Methought” inscribes itself onto the mysterious figure before you, descending its body vertically from the tip of its head to its feet; “I saw my late” coils around a stunningly bright-red rose-bush, as “espoused Saint” bridges the end of “methought” to the coiling fragment; “Brought to me like Alcestis from the grave” imprints itself high in the sky, shining like a permanent bolt of lightning as it streaks across all of creation, though, “the grave” intrudes upon one of the floating creatures bodies and drags it into its surreal game; “Whom Jove’s great Son to her husband gladly gave” appears stretched thin, as it prostrates itself along one of the trenches, “gave” ending at the foot of a burning bush; “Rescu’d from death” teases you by becoming one with the flames and twisting and turning in how the words arrange themselves. Finally, “by force through pale and faint” returns in a laborious line back to the mysterious figure’s feet.]
Disorienting, this patch is hard to perceive. Interpretation will be difficult, you feel.
Reality, of course, bends to you.