Homage to Braque Drawing

Requires framing to be properly displayed. After Braque's Le Gueridon Running your hand across the surface a variety of textures bristle at your touch telling your senses about the difference between some things and similarity of others. What's that smell? Your fingers are confused beyond their own tactility and try on disparate sensory roles in attempts to learn the unknown (by heart). The thumbs try to see but they are clumsy blind moles fanning in their sockets. Rotissary chicken. The pinkies listen intently yet hear little. Chicken Little (the sky isn’t falling its cascading) The fingernails lick the foreign surface in tasteless scrapes. Space, it must be humbly admitted, folds and unfurls without the least concern for who's in it or how far they'll go to discern its character. Objects avail themselves to containers turned outside in by perspectival dogma (the dicks). Objects (subjects themselves) subject each other to judgement due to their difference in shape, color, San Diego, temperature, Rome, foul mouths, McDonalds, flammability, harlequin suits and so on (and so forth Mrs. Weasley). Without so much as a "by your leave" time collapses after it's legs buckle and flatten like a dying spider. Spiders are notably unlike squirrels (wait, what?) just as space is noticeably different than 'no space' (which would stand true if it weren't so patently false or at least hard to prove.) Every thing is everywhere (including several poorly placed semi colons) as the narrator stops paying attention to the thread she's (I'm actually a dude but this is fiction) developed (though just barely as the point is missing or moot or threadbare) (you choose). The fragments of 30 minutes take 3 hours to reassemble and even then there are telltale seams of reconstruction so an hour and half later the narrator's got, like, 17% less time than she did when she started counting (1 one thousand, 2 one thousand, you get it she;s slow) (and can't tell her left from right without writing something with her foot (she's left handed). Altogether different circumstances mark the passage of space (picture a large Frank Gehry building supported by a small tortoise). The narrator tries to play all the angles but, frankly, given the spread out nature of space (and the often negatory temperament of tortoises with buildings on their backs) it's simply a clustercuss (if you're hoping for the least iota of order here)(the shell is composed of contiguous tetrahedrons. Each with a concentric stairstepping bump out.) (Or up). Night is falling, or cascading, on the tabletop now upon which the aforementioned fingers (it was a hand at first)(same dif) lurk about feeling, not smelling nor tasting the...um, furniture. Night is darker than day. Not the only difference but the less said the better (too late given where we've gone thus far (precisely nowhere which, dependent on your volume of contrariness, is a whisper from everywhere.) Still life painting is not dead when you mutter a 'natura morte’ or stuck on itself just because you venture a "Vanitas". Quite the opposite really (whatever really is). Still life takes time to arrange (unless you find it like that) and space within which a witch or wizard can conjure magic (and so forth Mrs. Weasley)…Can we please get back to the collapsing spiders and load bearing tortoises and give up describing the fickled facets of space? (No).