I stretch beyond the bounds of the world, I’m smaller than a worm, outstrip the sun, I shine more brightly than the moon. The swelling seas, the fair face of the earth and all the green fields, are within my clasp. I cover the depths, and plunge beneath hell; I ascend above heaven, highland of renown; I reach beyond the boundaries of the land of blessed angels. I fill far and wide all the corners of the earth and the ocean streams. Say what my name is. Riddle 66, Exeter Riddle Book Grabbing a vine that turns out to be a neck, or an arm. This is vicious humour. A procession of eyes, parading hands, staring and poking. Something is happening at the margins. Flesh, or fleshy matter, subtly changes, with nuances of colour and copies of nature and structure. Like a chameleon. Metamorphosing to a middle state where intertwined, hybrid fantasies are secret and static. Contained as such, they nevertheless transform as a spiral flows in continuum. Do you think about time sometimes? Do you think about transtemporalities? The space itself has its grid redoubled upon itself; the floor is inverted. Shapes mirror shapes, finding aspects shining, porous, sleek, and in relief. They imitate each other, taking the appearance of something else instead. Discreet creatures speak in mysterious tongues, whispering about their eternal renewal.
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