There are places I can't remember Because my memory Has been stolen from me.

A mime stole it, you see. So, there are faces I can't remember. His whatnot movements were hypnotic. The night was dark The streetlamps were...buzzing Midgets and their flight erratic. It was a different city altogether. The man was white as chalk From his bald skull to the tip of his fingernails He was miming he was a mime Who had forgotten he was a mime. The which led to farsical turn of events He was acting mimrages mirages yes mirages Mirages of memories I wish I had mine But the mine took it In a quick, jerky, snatching move Too quick to reach It felt like I could just watch like I was made of stone and he made of pliable papyri His evil deed done He smirked he did indeed. Revealing two rows of exceedingly white teeth And went on to steal other people's memories. Some didn't mind the intrusion I could tell. Perhaps he took em some bad memories. I left felt estranged from the crowd As if as in a cloud Surgrounded by greyness Then I [...] An old nickelodeon was sampling Somewhere Who on earth Had this many dimes To feed the darn machine? You could tell his garb was ancient Antiquated There were loose strings at every seam

as if he'd cut his marionette strings free himself. The mime's outfit was ripped Under the armpit A lean lanky fellow he was. Moving like he was his own puppeteer.

yet his skin was white underneath

The unfair advantage of being free from language yet full of expression. I'll go back to the main square down town And kill the mime. He had no right to take whatever he took from me. But just how do you kill a mime? He's neither here not there Hanging his gestures in mid-air In mid-sense, in mid-sentence. A mime isn't what he says he is, or thinks he is, or he is No self. No future. No friend. Just his mind. His butterfly hands. And perspicacious visage. Time is just a heartbeat in the face of sand. Time was alone. And I just felt that my limbs were an embarrassment. I wasn't using them the way he did nor did I put them to any use whatsoever. Not in any of the meaningful ways he did anyway. His grimaces meant something which were not beyond words, but beyond expression itself. My smile never even conveyed happiness. Boredom it did perhaps. Sadness at any rate. He made his limbs, his face matter in the most telling manner. Chapters were being performed before us, entire libraries were being emptied and re-written enacted in a way none of them could ever have been read. Even hiragana and katakana were too codified to encompass his meaning, too blunt to express what his knee or his elbow meant to us on that night. [] the rigor mortis of our stone-like limbs [] The machine stops when the man stops. Walking is inscribed in our genes. The swinging motion of the arms, the alternation of the legs give impetus to the entire mechanism. It's raisin d'tre is in movement. The mime, just like the shark, cannot stop. We can, but we drop. [] There are spaces if can't remember.

Paper-thin language isn't enough. The movement of the pages unfit for perspectivity. I have to kill the mime before he finds a secret. Perhaps he has already unworded one. In his vacuummobility everything becomes possible, comescloser. Even dormant like an hourglass, le mime sis ici, miming sleep and inaction better than if he were actually sleeping and inacting, plus vrai que nature, plus rel que l'intolrable ralit, the mime had life and mysteries at his fingertips. We keep on looking. []

to or by JD or SM or TD or SC