A Story of Eight Limbs

Stories are not just told in black letters against a white background. They flip their tails, dive into acidified waters, bob in plastic soup, churn in the oceanic gyre. They pulse their fins, stretch human notions of time in old and slow shark-bodies. A story erupts in a suddenly spiky and violet arm, soft and yellow only moments ago. In a shapeshifting skin cell, a reaching limb swimming into a human story, translated, questioned, misrepresented. A story precedes storying, unknowable, nonhuman. Why should these words manipulate them and present their meaning? This arm is now a narrative pathway, her eye is a signifier, the beer bottle symbolic of this fish-bowl vision. A wave is imagination, a sea cucumber’s knowledge in your tube feet tiptoeing the sand erupting from her headless limbless body. These human words bestowed your meanings, yet somewhere tremble the stories unmitigated by a human brain and artificial eye. Do they want to be told in this language? What happens if these words disregard them?