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In the bottle-glass light of the room the air takes on the dull luminescent quality of dark water, of a deep ocean world lit by the glowing organs of fish who have never sensed the sun, where the living are illuminated by their own cells. Creaklessly rocking in the twilight the room feels sunken and tenuous and cold. The table, chair and body are intimately held in a cradle of wood and air while picked out in the gloom two pale trailing hands hang limply like clawed chicken legs in a butcher’s window. The skin of these hands, carelessly coruscated with rust, looks like cold marbled tallow with empty fingers curling around objects that have long since dissolved. Memory is the last sense to leave the body; the body is left grasping for something it knows to be gone.

[~fragment]

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The Persistance of Vision (2012)
john luke chapman

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