There is no trigger for it to surface and jump into the focus of my minds eye. It just happens. Without warning, maybe while pumping gas, maybe at the ATM, I see an immaculate realm of three dimensional patterns. The quiescent lack of color clings to topography and reshapes it. Everything is soft and quiet.
Definition loses it's meaning with a downward swerve into a still, white flood.
I can feel snow fluttering against me and I hear the sifting of displacement as I leave my signature behind. This is my niche as I remember it, and how I project it to be. The next sound might be of a gas pump or the ATM spitting my card back out, it really doesn't matter. I get on with my day, I do what I do, and I go to bed when it's over. Another day saturated with impulses somewhere between memory and dream has come to a close.