The fallen fell. The fallen fell in love. They fell and some called them the fallen. Which was not their real name. I mean names. Names of the fallen, like numbers of fallen, were like a huge crowd. Diverse and countless and jammed into someones idea of a scene.
The scene was ice cool. Crystal cool. Transparency at an all time high, yet the exposure was nonextant. Someone traced the shadow of it with a pocket sextant. Someone else beat that someone with a fist. Two fists. More fists. Pocket sextants were unpopular and threatening to the fallen.
The history of the fallen goes back like nostalgias handmaiden, switchbacking the foothills of any known mountain range. Rolling her ass off. She was only 24 and not thrilled to be subservient to anyone. No offense to nostalgia.
She craved anticipation. She anticipated the Ra scene sensation. She predated break beats and syncopated chronologies of parallel affect and mutuality.
She was characteristic of many of the fallen, and also could be fantasized into a perceptual confine of the sort so common to common unimaginative people. But she herself got free of nostalgia and fantasy and got real.
Real as the fallen. Unsedentary. Immoral, to be imperfectly honest. So very much present she was able to catch with them the wave.
The movement was unlike any other. Wish you were here was an overstatement. Their was a decided absence of wishful thinking along the path of the movement. But this mattered not. Analysis, postmortem, retroactivity…all were at a minimum.
Even deja vu got cancelled, as what was seen already, naturally was pointless to be experienced again. So followed the philosophy which rose up and took hold.
On that wonderful day the fallen brushed off the earth and walked the earth. And ruled the earth with equanimity and benevolent but decisive hearts.
And the back beat beat back the memory color crews, who retreated to some sepian reflection in a dank and inanimate oxygen starved pool.