More Gaddis

Must the flames of hell be ninety-nine blazes? or simply these small sharp tongues of fire that nibble and fall to, savoring the edges and then consume, swept by the wind of terror at exposing one's self, losing the aggreagate of meanness which compose identity, in flames never reaching full roaring crescendo but scorch through a life like fire in the grass, in the world of time the clock tells. Every tick, synchronized, tears of a fragment of the lives run by them, the circling hands reflected in those eyes watching their repitition in an anxiety which draws the whole face toward pupiled voids and finally, leaves lines there, uncertain strokes woven into the flesh, the fabric of anxiety, double-webbed round dark-centered jellies which reflect nothing. Only that fabric remains, pleached in the pattern of bondage which has a beginning and an end, with scientific meanness in attention to details, of a thousand things which should have happened, and did not: waited for, denied, until life is lived in fragments, unrelated untill death, and the wrist watch stops.