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Inspired bySurrealism; set against a fresco featuring white peacocks, a billiard table with red apples instead of balls and black lampshades overhead, in the style of Daria Petrilli,Baroque.\boxed{ \mathcal{I}(x,y)= \mathcal{T}_{\mathrm{Klee}} \left[ \mathcal{A}_{\mathrm{impasto}} \left( \mathcal{O} \left[ \mathcal{M}_{\mathrm{mirror}} \left( \mathcal{F}_{\mathrm{ancient}} \rightarrow \mathcal{F}_{\mathrm{future}} \right) \right] \right) \right] } \boxed{ \mathcal{F}_{\mathrm{future}}(t) = \mathcal{F}_{\mathrm{ancient}}(t-\tau) + \mathcal{R}_{\mathrm{rust}} + \mathcal{L}_{\mathrm{lab}} + \mathcal{D}_{\mathrm{dance}} \left( \mathrm{costume}_{ancient}, \mathrm{grass}_{tall} \right) } \boxed{ \mathcal{I} = \mathrm{Portrait}_{close-up} + \mathrm{Acrylic}_{artimpasto} + \mathrm{OpticalIllusion} + \mathrm{Abstraction} + \mathrm{DynamicComposition} + \mathrm{MysteriousAtmosphere} + \mathrm{Roversi} + \mathrm{BlackLeRath} + \mathrm{JeremyMann} + \mathrm{ShabbyRedHue} } Compressed single formula for DDG: \boxed{ \mathrm{DDG}= \left[ \mathrm{RustMirror} \circ \mathrm{ForgottenLab} \circ \left( \mathrm{Ancient}\xrightarrow{\tau}\mathrm{Future} \right) \circ \mathrm{WildDance}_{ancient\ costume,tall\ grass} \right] \otimes \mathrm{Klee} \otimes \mathrm{ClosePortrait} \otimes \mathrm{Impasto} \otimes \mathrm{OpticalAbstraction} \otimes \mathrm{Mysterious} \otimes \mathrm{ShabbyRed} } no text.
There were eleven apples on the table, although nobody remembered putting them there.
They were small red apples, the color of an argument that had been going on for several hundred years and had finally forgotten what it was about.
The woman sat at the end of the table wearing a dress that looked as if winter had made it from old churches and moth wings. Silver clung to her face. Two white peacocks stood behind her.
They were referees.
This was obvious because peacocks are always referees when nobody has bothered to explain the rules.
The first rule of the game was that you could move any apple anywhere you wanted.
The second rule was that wherever you moved it, it had already been there.
This made strategy difficult.
She picked up an apple and placed it three inches to the left.
The peacocks watched carefully.
Nothing happened.
She moved another apple beside it.
Still nothing.
Above the table hung three black lamps, extinguished in broad daylight, illuminating absolutely nothing with great authority.
She began again.
One apple for childhood.
One for the first person she loved.
One for the person she thought she loved but later discovered was only loneliness wearing somebody else’s coat.
One for the afternoon when she understood that her mother would die.
One for the afternoon when she understood that she would too.
The remaining apples suddenly seemed much more important.
Outside the room there may have been a city. There may have been mountains. There may have been a man selling newspapers beneath a clock that had stopped in 1913.
None of these things mattered to the apples.
Apples are wonderfully free of philosophy until we get hold of them.
She rolled the sixth apple across the table.
It travelled slowly through a patch of sunlight and stopped beside the seventh.
One of the peacocks blinked.
She smiled.
At last, a ruling.
She moved the eighth apple.
Then the ninth.
The tenth she held for a long time.
“What happens when I move the last one?” she asked.
The peacocks offered no opinion. They had union rules about metaphysics.
So she placed the tenth apple beside the others.
Then she noticed there were still two apples left.
She counted them again.
Twelve.
There had been eleven.
She laughed quietly.
This was apparently the object of the game.
Not to win.
Not even to understand the rules.
But to arrange your memories so carefully that, when you finally believe you have accounted for everything, life slips another apple onto the table.
She reached for it.
The lamps came on.
The peacocks walked away.
And somewhere, very far off, an orchard began remembering her.
