The model of a contrivance by means of which could certainly get possession of the sheets which were to be a rope; it was a short stick attached by one end to a long piece of thread. By this stick intended to attach the rope to the bed, and as the thread hung down to the floor of the room below, there should pull the thread and the rope would fall down. Tried it, and congratulated the invention, as this was a necessary part of scheme, as otherwise the rope hanging down would have immediately discovered me.
I pull the thread, unravelling round this tiny labyrinthine, a room for music and dance.
Sitting, sets the thread. Set of dining-room furniture constructing a whole geography of consciousness proceeding along inescapable pastimes merely accursed.
Empty dress stretched over their shoes plays in the background. Bleached dust expectations of necessity, haunted expression, a voice is singing. Lyricism to a reality both silent and unexampled. Time edge limits of wants irrational.
A small bead is tied to the thread on the outside of the bag. The purpose of the bead is to have something which may be seen and easily grasped so that the cork can be released without fumbling. In case the bag is of a material or design which would make the bead noticeable, there are two alternatives. One is to sew a number of beads onto the bag where such added decoration would be in keeping. The other is to run the thread through the material to the outside of the bag and, at a point about a half an inch distant, run the thread back through the bag and fasten it to the inner surface of the bag. This will make a loop of thread flat against the outside surface of the bag which, by slipping a fingernail under the loop, makes it simple to pull the thread and thereby remove the cork. The thread used must be extra strong to avoid any chance of having it break. Linen thread is suitable. When thread of a matching color is used, it is invisible, and even a contrasting color is not apt to be noticed and, when noticed, is meaningless.
An open pair of scissors down its throat along a single word of refined manners, circumstances naked and shivering, tiny moment among inscribed photos blurred and damaged. Symmetrical nothing of continual resemblance, vaguely waiting to remember the girls were pretty at the seaside, beneath black sky senses its wide sweep along boundaries of the body reaching. Thread touched unfolds.
This is not who I remember. The first body was an environment a land-mark on the frontier of tomorrow. In the meaning of the day the way one turns and looks—eyes for hands. Today the stranger the exile and spook are in my shaving mirror. In my dream you are real. I am as one who each day stands behind the tapestry and receives the needle to pull the thread taut and pass it back through. The design is no one’s.
This may just be an illusion, high heels flimsy brightly colored dresses tucking her blouse sprinkled with icing sugar, imagine deep sleeps in the afternoons peering through a keyhole, with a little culture, yards of fabric and not much trouble, getting dressed up for existence between belief and unbelief. Elevator door trundles shut.