Epoche(short prose)
#1
[b]Epoche

Five stoplights I court, being the first car stymied each time, and as I watch, the rear-light configuration on the cars before me which had escaped seemed to suddenly be arranged into smirking smiles. The final stoplight, a target of the blatant sun, is robbed of its incandescence and its command to proceed eludes me. The assaulting immediacy of the car horns punctures the soothing drone of the air conditioner and my body jerks, once, then again, before I apply the accelerator and turn left into what abruptly appears as an asphalt pasture which features stagnant cars in lieu of cows. I join them in their line and depart the car; as I move my legs, what had appeared before from a distance to be a shopping mall now presents itself as a hulking geometric aberration, simultaneously hovering above and approaching me. I restore my bearings and it seems to shrink, and I find myself walking toward what is again the shopping mall. The damp, rich, leathery smell of a department store hangs in the thin wintry air at the threshold of the mall entrance, and I inhale it; it embodies me.

Once inside the effluvium submits to a thick scent of public air: weary, spent, and scarce. At the gauntlet of bodies congregated around a pretentious, bulky stage in the nucleus of the midway, I sporadically glance, to no real effect save for a reciprocation in the eyes of a depthless but beautiful girl who faintly smiles. I move on, to secure a bench before a trendy clothing store choked with heterogeneous pairs of blue jeans juxtaposed in impeccable squares within cubbyholes. The spectators inside stir; I retire my eyes and listen to the rustling of their pant-legs against themselves. I scarcely move for an hour; night has fallen and the patrons begin to age. I desert the bench, cross again the throng of vigilant witnesses at the stage, which is now animated with what appears to be preteen models, and depart the building. I resort to home after an hour of reflection upon the city streets.

/
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#2
Five stoplights I court, being the first car stymied each time, and as I watch, the rear-light configuration on the cars before me which had escaped seemed to suddenly be arranged into smirking smiles. The final stoplight, a target of the blatant sun, is robbed of its incandescence from my perspective and its command to proceed eludes me. 

The assaulting immediacy of the car horns punctures the soothing drone of the air conditioner and my body jerks, once, then again, before I apply the accelerator and turn left into what abruptly appears as an asphalt pasture which features stagnant cars in lieu of cows. I join them in their line and depart the car; as I move my legs, what had appeared before from a distance to be a shopping mall now presents itself as a hulking geometric aberration, simultaneously hovering above and approaching me. 

I resume my bearings and it seems to shrink, and I find myself walking toward what is again the shopping mall. The damp, rich, leathery smell of a department store hangs in the thin wintry air at the threshold of the mall entrance, and I inhale it; it embodies me.   maybe "restore" instead of resume, or some other word

Once inside the effluvium submits to a thick scent of public air: weary, spent, and scarce. At the gauntlet of bodies congregated around a pretentious, bulky stage in the nucleus of the midway, I sporadically glance, to no real effect save for a reciprocation in the eyes of a depthless but beautiful girl who faintly smiles. 

I move on, to secure a bench before a trendy clothing store choked with heterogeneous pairs of blue jeans juxtaposed in impeccable squares within cubbyholes. The spectators inside stir; I retire my eyes and listen to the rustling of their pant-legs against themselves. I scarcely move for an hour; night has fallen and the patrons begin to age. I desert the bench, cross again the throng of vigilant witnesses at the stage, which is now animated with what appears to be preteen models, and depart the building. 

I resort to home after an hour of reflection upon the city streets.  I think you need some final thoughts here, not just this line.

I added more paragraph breaks.  Just makes it more readable to me.  Overall, I enjoyed the experience of your experience.  A hint of Peter Handke in this prose piece.  Check him out some time.
“All persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.”  Kurt Vonnegut
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#3
(07-16-2021, 10:31 PM)TranquillityBase Wrote:  Five stoplights I court, being the first car stymied each time, and as I watch, the rear-light configuration on the cars before me which had escaped seemed to suddenly be arranged into smirking smiles. The final stoplight, a target of the blatant sun, is robbed of its incandescence from my perspective and its command to proceed eludes me. 

The assaulting immediacy of the car horns punctures the soothing drone of the air conditioner and my body jerks, once, then again, before I apply the accelerator and turn left into what abruptly appears as an asphalt pasture which features stagnant cars in lieu of cows. I join them in their line and depart the car; as I move my legs, what had appeared before from a distance to be a shopping mall now presents itself as a hulking geometric aberration, simultaneously hovering above and approaching me. 

I resume my bearings and it seems to shrink, and I find myself walking toward what is again the shopping mall. The damp, rich, leathery smell of a department store hangs in the thin wintry air at the threshold of the mall entrance, and I inhale it; it embodies me.   maybe "restore" instead of resume, or some other word

Once inside the effluvium submits to a thick scent of public air: weary, spent, and scarce. At the gauntlet of bodies congregated around a pretentious, bulky stage in the nucleus of the midway, I sporadically glance, to no real effect save for a reciprocation in the eyes of a depthless but beautiful girl who faintly smiles. 

I move on, to secure a bench before a trendy clothing store choked with heterogeneous pairs of blue jeans juxtaposed in impeccable squares within cubbyholes. The spectators inside stir; I retire my eyes and listen to the rustling of their pant-legs against themselves. I scarcely move for an hour; night has fallen and the patrons begin to age. I desert the bench, cross again the throng of vigilant witnesses at the stage, which is now animated with what appears to be preteen models, and depart the building. 




I resort to home after an hour of reflection upon the city streets.  I think you need some final thoughts here, not just this line.

I added more paragraph breaks.  Just makes it more readable to me.  Overall, I enjoyed the experience of your experience.  A hint of Peter Handke in this prose piece.  Check him out some time.

tqb,

Thanks for the edits and reformat. It is a prelude to a novella I am writing on solipsism, hence the "epoche" of Husserlian phenomenology where he "brackets" the existence of the outside world and concentrates solely on the structures of consciousness and its objects or "phenomena." Much of my writing, prose or poetry, is consistent with this theme, therefore the great(some would say overbearing) concentration of descriptions without a repair to evaluation, if that makes any sense.
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#4
Way too many adjectives. Adjectives are a sign of poor writing (especially in prose) as they usually offer unnecessary information/description, and are used because the other words in the sentence are too weak. Try and see if you can get rid of most of them and replace them with stronger nouns. Do the same with adverbs, as well (and replace with stronger verbs (active voice)).

I like the sensory descriptions. Maybe add some poetic devices, like similes perhaps? Could help with the imagery and help reduce the adjective problem.
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