A closed glass cylinder. Rounded ends. Long. Narrow. Perhaps ten centimetres long and one millimetre thick.
Floating. Smooth and sparkling. In a barely lit space.
Filled. A tiny volume of bright red liquid.
Part of me watches from one side.
Another aspect of my mind is an infinitely thin, invisible circular plane. Centred just inside one end of the cylinder. Extending in a five centimetre wide radius around it.
This mind has multiple views. From its outer perimeter it sees the exterior of the cylinder along its length. From its centre, inside the cylinder, a wall of red.
From all these angles we watch. This circular plane begins to advance along the length of the cylinder. Its centre moving through the liquid. Since the plane is not physical, it does not disturb the cylinder or its contents. But it somehow reads its texture, like a needle on a record.
The liquid becomes semi-translucent. Non-homogenous. Its viscosity, its clumping, its varying shades of red, are a kind of narrative. A play. A dramatic series of events and characters and language, of sorts, in the form of clouds and currents and movements within the liquid and within my own body.