The shadow groaned, "There's been an untitled accident—fifty-six bones blossoming into a residency of dust. The sharpness of Time, with its white limb of phosphorescence, peers seven times through the green glass of the fumbling day."
The red lamp pronounced, "Clear bedside, dance and switch, Dr. so and so: neither the sky hoarsely singing nor the needle's eye will wake the wild internist of light. He thinks his fifth name is not quite awake, lost as it is in the ashen web of July. Now, with no protocol, the butler, asleep, paints the painter to betray him."
"I believe you," muttered the clock, "I can tell memory has always been wordlessly spiraling. The heat of its breath threaded blindly through the activated night, through a ladder of stones, through this frozen corner and transfigured the still illegible shape west of disaster. You are the very turn, the turn before this lover's line of flight."
[Note: This text is a mash-up of Company of Moths (2005), the tenth book by Michael Palmer, the poet, and Fatal (2002), the tenth medical thriller by Michael Palmer, the novelist. No Michaels were harmed during the making of this composition.]