Here is a poem that deals with the evocations of textures—when smoke moves like smoke and pulse moves like neon, when they smoke in and out of their own abilities & the whole ambience stills and stretches into a moment that is nothing less than ephemeral. How do these seconds slow? Through tricks of the light, smoke and mirrors? Or stretched out like the most dire of heartbeats, pulsing, pulsing continuously? To stretch such a heartbeat out into the dark, into the melting moments when the light mixes with the texture and the warmth, when the lights are flickering like your own heartbeat—that is the feeling. But all these moments click together so quickly in retrospect, in hindsight, to others who watch from distances, nervously focusing on the monitor. So, too, is this flatline, neon, pulsing, and capturing, recording the ephemeral, the clinical confirmation of life, & then, & then… not life. That moment when the world slows and stills, and refocuses—it only lasts a moment, but the moment lasts for an eternity. Similar to the way that light will blink and the frames will never reveal their splinters of darkness. Instead, we watch it flow continuously—feeling it all instantaneously.