Quilters

found scribbled on a napkin after a particularly interesting night:

"the dry, papery mouthful of caps and stems is swallowed, tasted, absorbed, lingers...gives way to a fluid anxiety -- skin shivers with minute molecular tremors. the pupils enlarge. green and purple and pink swell in sweet tides, carressing, pulsing, hovering on the corner of your vision - rabid, fragmented fractals. dissolution. seconds and minutes and hours melt into a jagged expanse of nothingness. everything becomes disjointed / held together by rough stiches / embroidered basting (quilters on meth) and their fingers slipping(a needle gauges a tired old palm and the place explodes in a sea of red -- smiles become tears become smiles) and the lining is pulled out and the seams show but the damn thing still manages to stay together and the patchwork night is bright as day and you hold your heart in your hands and you taste god.

i guess they - the quilters- a few fucked-up ancients with grey hair and backs bent with the gravity of experience -- came down just about the time we did. the sky blanded and drabbed and antiqued and their old crow's feet eyes lost their wildness, squinted, gazed with an almost perverse intensity and seemed (to remember) to understand how the pattern was supposed to go. they wove reality for us; they pieced it back together from the tired scraps of consciousness we had tossed away and left for lost (forgotten) in the dusty corners of our brains."