I find myself wondering how to break into people’s consciousnesses.

To insert myself into their brains. Hack them.

Step around the noise of everyday life so that in their moments of peace they think of me. Of my work. Of my art and words and wonderment.

And they wonder. They wonder while they wander.

There I am again at the periphery of thought.

How do I achieve this?

How to tell when I have succeeded?

Will I know?

Or will it remain their dirty little secret?

I’ve tried to tell them to Pay Attention.

And that works for the span of a few hundred words, but gone again after the cut.

Perhaps repeated exposure? But that becomes noise and I do not want to be part of the noise.

Rather then become the silence.

The vacuum of sound and message and impress that withdraws the mind like a salve drawing toxic thought.

The space into which the mind expands beyond the bounds of body and thought flourishes. Notions bloom.

The whisper that elicits tingles of excitement. Intimate connection.

Speaking to you and you alone. Not the masses.

You dear reader. Listen to my words in your mind.

Let them adjust. Massage.

I take you to a world of wonder. Of my own creating.

The Realms of Un.

Unbound by convention, ruled by Unreality, until they become Undone.

Planted in your brain by my whispered thought.

Fed by imagination. In mine sparked and fanned in yours, the fire, wild, grows large.


In the fire dances the most beauteous creature. Supple curves and sway. Of myth and fantasy made flesh of mind.

She dances.

Forbidden to touch, yet breathless you draw nigh, hypnotized by firelight cast from her lips in a gentle whisper of crackling siren’s song.

In in in you move, pulse quickening as you fall deeper into the flame that does not burn in physical pain yet blooms inside as you become the dancer in the flame.

Enrapt in flowing silk robes she becomes you as you sway to the rhythm of crackle and roar and burn.

The world falls away…

A whisp of smoke and ember adrift on the heat of the blaze.

The light fades. The pulse beats slow.

Rhythmic thump of seconds pass in the void.

Glimmer green glows the spark. Cupped to touch, to nourish in the dark, purple crackle of lightning binds nerve to nerve.


A new world awaits inside the spark. Tendrils of you enter the world. A finger puppet for you to wiggle about and observe.

Verdant and lush. Rich scent and feel as you run new skin through the dirt.

Damp and warm with decay.

Tingle of new life too small to see. Waiting to be.

A child laughs. Bubbles and squeaks of glee. Ya. Coo coo hoot.

The child tries to speak. Tendril of you makes faces with your withered puppet.

Perhaps another traveler yet ascended.

Your minds meet in the touch of eyes. Imperceptible. Removed from active thought. Instinct blooms knowing.


The world dims.

The tendril thins, withdrawing as your once new skin weathers and crumbles into dust and dirt blown on the wind.

You reach across the voiceless void, stretched on the memory of the wind.

Howl and blow and bluster in the storm lashing about.

You fly, you flit, hither and thither and yon on wings of light glow.

Strong and of purpose, whipping the sky lingering long in the basking glory of power and rage and bursting pride, you soar above the bluster into the blue.

Grey below, bright sun above, upside down and sideways fall and rise on the currents of love buoying the spirit.

You rise.

You rise to the face of the sun. Beautiful sun. Star of life.

The wind no longer reaches the heights you ascend. Aurora ripples by in ribbons, you sway. Blown about instead by the cosmos in the vacuum ‘tween you and the roiling boiling celestial.

You float adrift in the cold.

The illusion of love’s warmth only holds sway at distance. Mystery and mystique veiling the swirl of uncertain hearts.

You crumple and fall inward. Grasping for nothing as you fall through the storm renewed.


Given to the storm, essence spreads wide. Thin.

Hopeful puddles splash the passing of feet. Touching hundreds. Touching thousands.

Little pieces of you. Glean moments here there her and him and they and the leaf down which you roll.

Rivulets flow to rivules into rivers of lust and desire and passions washed clean of the souls passing by.


Wishing for star light falling upon the calmed waters untouched by the moon.

Sway in the intoxication of her dance reflected in the unbroken surface.

Mirror to the flame conflagration. She is you and you are her.

From the depths you rise, emerge from the silken stillness reborn.


Unbound, old self Undone.

Welcome, friend, to the Realms of Un.

-j.e. pittman