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Nothing Happened

And then it keeps happening. Like a hole in the middle of
     the memory of a field. The interruption of it spreading, widening
out toward the edges. Or is it that the field, receptive,
     pours itself into it? Like a consummation. The way a fire

can realize by feeding. What knows a thing better than
    what consumed it? Like the deepest active black of the
cast iron pan. Constant reminder; omen of the stove. The dead
    center of an inhuman eye. Its iris is my living space; my entire life.

And what next? Nothing rested, or it may have tried to.
    But everyone in power kept wanting to keep it, to keep it
going. To stop it from solidifying. They needed it to seep
    its way into everything, everything. They needed it to push

past the filters. To replace the filters. They needed it to take
    the place of everything, and it does. It swallows inconsistencies
like a snake swallows eggs. I crack an egg into the pan;
    I’ll crack another. I felt it was the last. I feel there can be

no more. Nothing laughed. And as it keeps laughing, I remember
    a painting of curtains so lifelike, no one who looked at it didn’t feel
some new reality stirring inside them. Just look how the folds
    now are starting to disturb themselves. As if about to catch fire.