The practitioner speaks and I eye the orb beside her (did the words invoke? no, it just arose). Stationary and sweet, it endears itself to me. I wish for a conscious being. Desire for slight sun burst animism deafens the ear (the silent orb, breathing evenly). The room falls to silhouette, dark obstacles to the source. But it’s no glowing totem; just refraction, the window, and lashes.
You have shot a flare into the sun and captured it on film. The developed image may manifest as mist or cloud up the aether. What kind of representation is this and on purpose? Presence begs the conscious question. Ghosts of brightness wash out the silhouette or stain its white parts. This is one of two ways. The other: as relic ringing artifact.
Looking up after nightfall, I expect to see ghosts: apparitions in naked panes, charted darkness, the machine. With nimble glances, manifest from particles eventual relic and collect residual light. What amasses? Desire for evidence, echoed consciousness, not material alliance. I lack proper instruments. The resonant frequency of the eye claims invisible bodies that breathe near the edge of hearing; this crowded room, I mind my manners when alone.
Perception keeps up the phenomenal. From the most recognizable objects, devise and fashion faces. Invert the light, reenact in reverse. Features from smudges and sensible shadows. Presence is based in perception. Become a curator of vague and random significance and take the gift of patternicity. A scrying way to crowd an empty room.