Once thrived, and still thrives, a small, industrious civilization called Revorare that circles its sun faster than fathomable. Day and night blur together in one sequence and the stars bring the expertise normally concealed by distance closer than touch. Hypothesis and theory become conceptualization and application in one swift motion, leading to a profound acceleration of technological production in all fields since the period between the imagining of a tool and its practical, everyday usage manifest at the same juncture. This prompt condensing generates profound wealth and an exceptional quality of life for its citizens in such self-sustaining manner that the nation never conceived expanding beyond itself. As a result, they remain invariably isolated to this day.
Fragments of their stories exist solely through intentional dissemination; they may disclose a desire to communicate with places beyond it or, now having heard their tales, we can assume that, despite all their comforts and luxuries, a concise anxiety materialized alongside their advantages—an anxiety which seems to recur fully formed as soon as it fades into memory like a knot tightening and loosening the curvature of itself and the calm comforts to which it relates. This proposes a problem or, rather, a contradiction: why not imagine a salve or permanent cure for anxiety? Surely, it wouldn’t be impossible when anything imagined becomes operational at the same time.
Our curiosities directed the choice of today’s tale, one that takes place in the very institution responsible for advancing and dispersing the tools and practices aimed at panacea, medicine. Notably and understandably, their linguistic system is highly condensed (and short); large swathes of meaning concentrate into multi-layered distillations of symbol, reference, and pleasure in of itself, for itself, and for others on a meta-concurrent plane. Through careful analysis, we have annotated the story to the best of our ability. Strangely, nobody on our side remembers doing this—the annotations seem to have been always been present in the story as if Revorare predicted and allowed our decipherment, its elucidation on our terms, and the translation and preservation of the text in a state as close to the original as possible.
a pink-face doctor bore self-time under a tincture glass.[1] A wired, wake of mound.[2] A tempered totter of dreams.[3] She loved self-possession and disliked her traits including these few (but not only these few): crybaby, long torso, 8 fingers, 3 legs, hypochondriac. Oh, but there were more. Many more. One day she would list them all. Then, she would give that list to her employer. And say, “There it is. You have it all now.” The sideswiping critiques she would launch at those overcooked authoritatives. Thinking only they were inward. We too have all those things. All of us. And, wake up: we don’t like them one ounces. Or, two.[4] Pricks.[5]
Melodrama tactile reference made the ebb mime plastered olive misbegotten.[6] The rest and all the rest count expired the points of unending ahead.[7] “Their faces rot the fixture of mine.”[8] Forth&Binding[9] the dark circles, squinting eyelids heavy, reddish stains the pupils, downturned lips, weighted gait, and general dimming of social faculties.[10]
Inconclusive makings interminable the reluctant forward dimly, brightly, smartly to oppugn the transitive in new terms and flicker the under until fading and dying.[11]Terraforming electric currents until the whole grid snaps, if necessary. I will. She thought. She hoped. She wished. A real wish too; a prayer even. Until, she gave up and stopped stomping. A mood: unwavering, she thought and said, “why,” compounding that question with a sigh violating the proximal private.[12] Nosy nobodies, flee. She thought. She hoped. She wished. Real too; an emphatic begging the pleading of all which pleads.[13] And made them too the flicker and stomped harder and louder, uncaring, uncontrollable might opposing all those inhabiting today’s mirth and curiosity.[14]
She further cursed a belly-deeper, “A metric ton of meddlesome. Wanting to know everything. Well, not everyone needs to know everything all the time. I’d give you my list too. A million lists in the making. Now that’s a real job. Then, I’d have real work. Then you’d have all of me that there is to have. And I’d be the bug nonentity, drunk up dry. And still you’d thirst for wanting, I’d wager.”
Her step torched uneven the lithe pined secluded, deeper than relic inhumed, never urned, sarcophagly in the brackets of a bracket margined silent ever, ever, and ever the vaulted scripts of unguarded voyeur divested.[15] And sitting her sat apparatus in her private F&B office, public detours on detours encumbered the rapture unattained the excitation unattainable, auto-lithe wakes the wakened and never quite unawakened inferred playful gestures of love, loving, loved within toying displeasure distended she begins again oxygenated[16] renewal the course when she,
through a small window, a doctor looking at the clock. ↩︎
She had just woken up, feeling slow and heavy, yet stimulated—prepared. ↩︎
The night before, she had many dreams in quick succession. They were uneventful. ↩︎
One ounces, or two: possibly slang, or individual eccentricity. In context, we can assume it means “at all” or “one bit,” while “or two” might add emphasis. No other records of its usage exist. (We preserved the grammatical error from the original. We do not know if it was intentional.) ↩︎
She is unhappy with her current employers. ↩︎
Her disdain for her employers grew so much the color of her face turned from pink to green, altering her disposition, stiffening her muscles, spoiling her morning. She regretted working herself into such a state considering the whole situation was a revenge fantasy set on the theatrical stage of her imagination. Her contempt redirected from her employers to herself. ↩︎
She looked at the clock again saddened by her mood—she would have to get through the rest of the day based on the foul foundation of an angry start. ↩︎
She dreaded inevitably seeing the faces of her employers because she would see in them the memory of her spoiled morning and they would see in hers the lines fixed at points that signal mental fatigue. ↩︎
Forth&Binding: expression meaning the time ahead and all possible futures are designed by present determination and mood. Strangely enough, we later learn “Forth&Binding” is also the name of the hospital where the doctor works. We can assume the doctor was making a rather self-deprecatory and self-aware pun considering the unfortunate determinative start to her morning. The pun would likely be unoriginal since the name of the hospital was already an established expression indicating the origin of the name itself was born from pun and, coworker law and interpersonal office humor would dictate acknowledgement and parroting of forms based on conditions of acceptable behavior to which this pun would likely belong. Still, the doctor’s usage frames it in a darker light than what would be considered normal and appreciated in office decorum. ↩︎
A list which indicates the points observed by others when someone starts the day irritable and aching. ↩︎
She prepared for work and left home reluctantly despite feeling no resolution to her previous feelings. It was cloudy and she walked with purpose and confidence, starkly contrasting her mood, which she needed to repress (within the realm of what her capabilities allowed) in order to advance. She glanced down at her feet while she walked and imagined stomping out her bad mood with each step, displacing her mood from herself (the subject) to that which is being stomped (the object). She mentally materialized her mood, anthrophosphorizing a dying light, still flickering with breath underfoot. ↩︎
The proximal private refers to the non-space an individual occupies when nobody else is around to detect them via the senses. Her loud sighing violated the proximal private; other people in the vicinity heard her; they turned to look at her in response. ↩︎
She wanted the strangers looking in her direction to stop looking and her mind raced with a desperate pleading like an anxious prayer faced with a tight deadline. ↩︎
The strangers continued staring, so she pictured them as dying lights too, stomping them underfoot as she did her mood. She detested their curious and happy spirits, which, in reality, they may or may not have had. ↩︎
Each stomp harder than the last walking the long staircase to her office, she concluded any anxious prayer must be a tendency towards satisfaction but that tendency is opposed to satisfaction since it comes from disharmony—especially one that pleads for satisfaction in the seclusion of a single mind (doubling beyond the prayer, the non-collective ego); the fulfillment of seclusion’s object cancels out when seclusion becomes nothing without its opposition: others. The prayer’s instinct then is to assure it drives towards obliteration, imminent in the prayer itself (the erasure of others erases the prayer), but postponing that obliteration indefinitely. It seems itself to fetishize that imminence, seen and propelled eternally to that which it opposes and that which assures its undoing and ultimate end even when the desired object the prayer imagines is not that imminent undoing itself. The imagined desired object is simply not a thing, a relic of a relic of a relic in a past unrealized in the brackets of a bracket bracketed—a nebulous interaction circling the actual object that is not, in truth, the object the subject believes is the object. In that sense, it’s not even a feeling—the anxious prayer is not even opposed to others because its correspondence is dictated by accident, unaware yet driven, a casualty of dynamic movement, and affectation of a thing on a plane unrelated to the thing compelled by it, irrevocably disturbed. The doctor sees this as always attached to language itself too, but ignores this connection (which is a rather collective connection to make) by making a pun on the word, “script,” as in the script of “determination” and shorthand for a “prescription” a doctor would write for a patient. ↩︎
She makes that pun because she realizes, sitting down in her private office, her job deploys that tendency to breed excitation in the gradual tension and lessening of that tension (nearing and departing the object, its end) through the medium of an organization bestowed the powers of biochemical regulation itself regulated by other arms extending deeper into other organizations themselves caressing around in circles that tension deployed, always moving and always postponing the realization of fulfillment in constant detour. And does something oppose that tension driven? Only its repeated reproduction of that postponement, not as opposition but suspending it in constant perpetuation of its forms through contradictions becoming playful awakenings and reawakenings, the love of never attaining. In this thought, she found and finds (the grammatical tense here mimics that dynamic tension) answer and disturbance and irritation and love, thus, continuing her work and loathing with renewed appreciation when all of you tuning in, see again, ↩︎