matter ===> phase

we are picking thru broken glass on the bathroom tiles, which are a grid and a map, a strange projection, that's what's happened hasn't it, the once achingly round now dropped & flattened for our analysis, only it is hard to read, we are cutting our fingers twice in one place, once somewhere else, but the markings are like press-pins, like mosquitos caught well-fed and too slow, we are clearing a space and charting passage, moving forward and thankful the cries of what's left behind & passed over are faint against the fabric rounded on our knees, safe in their undrawn borders, calm in our mechanical refinement, on the carpet now, inventing perhaps the cotton gin, collecting everything on sheafs of tissues like a screen, like or very possibly actually coffee filters, we reached for anything and it obliged and later, balled & crumpled, rang like very small and misshapen and unlovable bells -- and always against these graded images & dim observation our one clear thought is that this all looks so much like ice

we could stop, stand, forget our structured self-preservation: given time the glass would like ice give up too, disappear, would buckle at its lattices, would melt and evaporate and be breathed into our lungs and cast down innumerable narrowing arteries, thoroughly and forever vanished

and isn't the analogy true enough? glass ignored and stepped over and on long enough and ground back into quartz and secreted in the pores and the creases and the gaps between and among and constituting everything, isn't that similar enough, identical in fact, the same process exactly perfectly the same the same the same

of course we will be long past walking then -- these lacerations, no doctor, it is frostbite, we will tell the doctors, our rooms were too cold! we hadn't counted on that, we will laugh at ourselves and put our doctors at ease, the ice could not melt! domestic frostbite, yes it is rare, but our rooms were too cold!

and covered in ice!

we are breaking so many glasses now. each glass broken is scooped into the next, we turn the ice musically in our tumblers, our drinks are perpetually chilled. we have fixed the heat in our rooms, they are very hot now, we are always in need of refreshment. we are drinking deeply from our glasses perpetually chilled, collecting the bright curling ice from our floor, filling our tub brightly, the shifting buoyant glass really sounds against itself just like ice floes cracking! we are sinking deeply into our ice bathes, we are really really refreshed

so much like ice!

we are passing from here to somewhere else. we are returning.

these thoughts seem very dangerous to us; just what did we break on the uneven, the improperly squared linoleum tile? a coffee pot? just the glass. the harness sits on the counter, grasping, specific but able also it seems to fit to a limitless arrangement of things. a tool for sculpting we think. we are lost in our thoughts. our thoughts are sublimating, if that is possible. the tentative emerging volumes of our thoughts, our sculpted reductions and evidences, they are changing directly into airy nothings, vapors. what were we thinking? we are vacuuming, we have stuck in our heads its high crooning song, we are noting with satisfaction the grit sounding in its brushes. what was it we broke? all the signs are vanished, washed over, blown away. we can't remember.