In the valley of concrete, there is a rising flickering sound, it moves to the chest where it sits and rests. Submerged we assemble in our plays of the liminal, folded in the chimes of distant ovations. How does it begin again? Like moths, we dance, lured in the beam((bioluminescent<1+)that sheds our shadow to the perpetual song we whisper. A sound that moves, contracts,,,, stutters, starts, stops, is inhaled. blustering noise. Insert the CD; The movements create a numerical system, engendered by additions and subtractions, a performing of multiplication and division, a seemingly rotary motion. //// neither here nor there, neither fish nor flesh made.

They kept it a secret. A secret, that echoed in circles, that never revealed itself to a larger audience than a few objects surrounding them. One of these objects had bizarre embroidery stitched on(to?) it, saying “cut your throat into a thousand pieces, you won’t find capital in there”. This resonated with them. Usually, written language wasn’t easy to grasp. For Lyra it had to be sung. She loved music. Often music was the only thing that offered her tenderness. For Lyra music was a place of peaceful retreat. Which turns out to be utterly valuable for someone struggling to find their kith.

The “event is not a thing, a fixed entity or a definable occurrence, but rather an incalculable, unforeseeable occurrence that interrupts the ordinary course of things." (Acquired from Specters of Marx) Lyra attempts (to undo the equation): The concept of historicity is remarkably prevalent among Dogs and Lightning Bugs. ____PEOPLE, they shout. “A fissure in the unyielding truth of historical events”, someone wants said, or a crack you may call it. (Lyra tried to slip in). It is conceivable that there is more to learn that we are not yet aware of, obviously. Still, at times it doesn’t feel this evident. Constantly I’m delving for signs, remnants. Reimagining, reinterpreting, and repurposing my/our past. “Mara/Mara” is written on a page with a dog-ear, in a book, a collection of short stories, I haven’t touched in years. Did I already know back then? It doesn’t really matter either, right?

Never established: The sun was setting on the city, casting long shadows on the cobbled streets. The air was thick with the soaring sound of buried music -¬¬¬¬ a twisted cacophony of discordant notes and shattered rhythms. Now!! More! _! +++ Someone snapped their fingers (This quiet signal of agreement is not new; this form of recognition spans back centuries ago.) Just right after that, I found myself stuck on muddy ground. Tired and indifferent. Lyra remembered last night vividly. We were texting. Spanning a communication network from soil to the afters. Let this be a start. Until next time when we reassemble, Lyra said. Sister, live on.