Once a private tide that rose behind the ribs. Now catalogued. Entered. Archived. The body no longer needs to remember the weight; the directory does it for us.
We gather here in the cold light of 1997 to remember the feelings that once moved through bodies without mediation. They have been reduced to searchable terms. Their passing is marked by these keywords. Type them with care. They are all that remains.
Once a private tide that rose behind the ribs. Now catalogued. Entered. Archived. The body no longer needs to remember the weight; the directory does it for us.
The heat that once cracked stone now arrives as a blinking cursor. We summon it with two words and watch it flatten into text. The furnace has been replaced by the keyword field.
That endless reach toward what cannot be held. It has been shortened to eleven characters. The ache remains, but it now fits inside a search box and returns 14 results.
The slow dusk of the afternoon soul. Once allowed to stretch across hours without name. Now summoned instantly, consumed, and replaced by the next listed feeling.
The brief shattering of the self against light. It survives only as a keyword. Type it. The directory will confirm that the experience has been recorded and filed under its proper term.