nothing untowards.

***

he says, they call it sublimation. when something magically goes from solid to gas. like dry ice. yes, dry ice. nice thing, that. it doesn't mess around, being a liquid, touching things and sticking, getting everything wet. it's, well, clean...

but, she says, you can't really simply replace one with the other, can you? changing ice into clouds, when all the while you're so very thirsty, so very- dry, as you put it? in the middle of you, there's a dry cracked need, and you can't deny it. can't overlook, overstep it.

he pauses, chooses words carefully. it's true. undeniable. in people, in me, the change and the choice isn't always as clean or easy or automatic as i'd like, and there's something remaining, a bitterness, a sadness, perhaps. but i know, if i am to maintain myself, maintain my impartiality, my responsibility, i- i can't. so, imperfect or not, i make the leap. i- sublimate.

***

on the other side of himself, the twin that is his negative image gives in yet again. and in the moment of release, there is one flashing fulguration of insight, in that disappearing instant when you get what you want, and you lose all wanting for it. and he glances for an instant, as though caught in the strobe flash of a lightning strike, at the pattern of himself, random and erratic splashes, collecting in the arced and heaving folds and valleys of another nameless her. there is a secret in that ultraviolet fluid, in the shape of its calligraphy, and he struggles to decipher it...